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MADAME 




CLAIRE 





' ‘LIA. 

33*13 








Madame Claire 

By 

Susan Ertz 







D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK :: :: MCMXXIII 




















A?*7 


COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 


APR 18 *23 

©C1A693905 



MADAME CLAIRE 








MADAME CLAIRE 


CHAPTER I 

If you wish to be relieved from the worries of 
housekeeping; if you wish to cultivate the society 
of retired army folk, or that of blameless spin- 
sterhood, ask for a room (inclusive terms) at the 
Kensington Park Hotel, Kensington. It is unpro¬ 
gressive, it is Early Victorian—though of late that 
term has lost some of its reproach—but it is 
eminently safe and respectable. 

Although neither of these qualities had ever 
particularly attracted Lady Gregory—or Ma¬ 
dame Claire, as her grandchildren called her— 
she found herself at the age of seventy a candi¬ 
date for admission. It was out of the question 
for her to keep up the big house in Prince’s Gar¬ 
dens after her only son Eric married. Live with 
him she would not, valuing his love for her and 
his own happiness too much to risk a menage-a- 
trois with a daughter-in-law—even a daughter- 


2 MADAME CLAIRE 

in-law of whom at that time she approved. For 
Madame Claire not only faced facts squarely, 
but she had a way of seeing under and around 
them as well, which greatly endeared her to the 
more discriminating of her children and grand¬ 
children. 

It was eight years since Eric had married 
Louise Broughton, and eight years since Madame 
Claire had come to live at the Kensington Park 
Hotel. Her little suite was arranged with 
charming taste. Guests of the hotel were not 
encouraged to furnish their own rooms, but Ma¬ 
dame Claire had succeeded little by little in oust¬ 
ing the hotel atrocities and had put in their place 
some favorite pieces left from the sale of the 
house in Prince’s Gardens. Her meals were 
served in her sitting-room by Dawson, her elderly 
maid, and there too she held her little court. 
She had a great pity for other old ladies less 
fortunately placed, who were obliged to be in, 
yet not of, the homes of their children or grand¬ 
children—“Always there, like pieces of furni¬ 
ture. Whereas,” she would say, “ if my family 
wish to see me they must come to me, and make 
an occasion of it.” 

A wonderful woman she was then at seventy- 
eight, with all her senses very much on the alert. 


MADAME CLAIRE 3 

She read a great deal, but thought more, looking 
out of her windows at the world. She usually 
dressed in gray or dark blue, avoiding black which 
she said was only for the young. She was more 
nearly beautiful at seventy-eight than at any other 
period of her life, though she had always been 
a woman of great charm. She had been a loved 
and invaluable wife to the late Sir Robert Greg¬ 
ory, whom the world knew best as ambassador 
to Italy. She often said that for the connoisseur 
there were only two countries, England and 
Italy. 

When Robert Gregory died, leaving her a 
widow of sixty, she was speedily—too speedily 
some said—sought in marriage by their life¬ 
long friend, Stephen de Lisle. That was eighteen 
years ago. Refused by her, and perhaps made to 
feel just a little an old fool, he went abroad in 
one of his black tempers, and she had not heard 
one word from him since. It was a great sorrow 
to her, for both she and her husband had loved 
him devotedly. The grandchildren, especially 
Judy and Noel, thought it a delightful romance. 
They liked having a grandmother who had re¬ 
fused a famous man at sixty and broken his heart. 
But it was a subject on which she would permit 
no affectionate comment. It would have meant 


MADAME CLAIRE 


4 

so much to her to have had him as a dear con¬ 
temporary and friend. 

One foggy morning in late December when the 
whole world seemed bounded by the thick yellow 
fog which pressed against her window panes, 
Dawson brought her a letter bearing a French 
stamp. She knew the handwriting at once, though 
it had been firmer in the old days. She read a 
few lines of it, then stopped and turned to her 
maid who was busy about the room. 

“Dawson,” said Madame Claire in a voice that 
was far from steady, “here’s a letter from Mr. 
de Lisle.” 

“Oh, m’lady!” cried Dawson who loved sur¬ 
prises, “it’s like a voice from the grave, isn’t it 
now?” 

“He’s not well,” continued her mistress, read¬ 
ing on. “Gout he says, poor old thing. He 
writes from Cannes, where he’s gone for the 
sunshine. He has to have a nurse. How he 
must hate it!” 

“And you as strong and well as ever,” exulted 
Dawson. It was a source of peculiar joy to her 
when any of Madame Claire’s contemporaries 
fell victims to the maladies of old age, or that 
severest malady of all, death. Her beloved mis¬ 
tress seemed to her then like the winner in a 


MADAME CLAIRE 


S 

great race, and who was she, Dawson, but the 
groom who tended and groomed the racer? She 
thrilled with pride. 

Madame Claire read the letter through to the 
end, and then went at once to her desk, with as 
free a step, Dawson thought, as she had ever had. 

“I must write to him immediately,” she said, 
a flush on her old cheeks. 

The letter took her several hours to write, 
because there was so much to tell him. He kept 
it, as he kept all her letters, and when he died 
they came into Eric’s possession, and finally into 
the writer’s. 

“My dear old Stephen” she wrote, 

“Nothing that has happened to me in the 
last ten years has given me as much pleasure as 
your letter from Cannes . After a silence a fifth 
of a century long, you have come alive for me 
again . Stephen, Stephen! How am I to for¬ 
give you for that silence? But I do forgive you, 
as you knew I would, and I thank you for the 
happiness you have given me by breaking it. 

“I don’t believe you have changed much, though 
you say you are an invalid — gout, phlebitis, rheu¬ 
matism! Infirm, crotchety old Stephen! Infirm 
as to legs, but very active, I (father, as to brain, 


6 


MADAME CLAIRE 


heart, and temper. How I wish we might see 
each other! But you cannot travel f and I — yes, 
I can, but I will not. I motor gently down to my 
little house in Sussex in the summer, and back 
again in the autumn, and that is enough. The 
rest of the time I dwell in peace and security in 
three rooms here at the Kensington Park Hotel, 
and it suits me very well. 

“How good it is that we can pick up the 
threads of our friendship again! As far as I am 
concerned it has neither lapsed nor waned. You 
say I dealt you a great blow. But, Stephen, how 
could you expect Robert’s widow, already a grand¬ 
mother, to have married again? That, my dear¬ 
est friend, would have been an elderly folly for 
which I would never have forgiven myself. You 
sulked badly, Stephen, and I think now you owe 
it to your years and mine to laugh. Do laugh! 
There is nothing like the mirth of old age, for 
old age knows why it laughs. 

“You say you want me to write you about 
everything that concerns myself. I know you are 
only trying to cover up your tracks here, for the 
one you really want to hear about is Judy. I am 
well aware of your elderly partiality for my 
granddaughter, with whom you fell in love when 
she was seven—twenty years ago. But I don’t 


MADAME CLAIRE 


7 

intend to pander to it at the expense of the oth¬ 
ers. Judy must take her turn along with the rest . 

u Stephen, would you he young again? You, 
thinking of your gout and your phlebitis, would 
cry ‘Yes!’ But don’t you see that you would 
merely he inviting gout and phlebitis again? For 
myself, the answer is no, no, no! And I have 
been happy, too, and with reason. Not for any¬ 
thing would I be blind again, uncertain, groping; 
feeling my way, wondering where my duty lay, 
dreading the blows of fate before they struck, 
valuing happiness too highly. That is life. 
Now the turmoil has died down, confusion is no 
more. It’s like sitting on a quiet hilltop in the 
light of the setting sun. Fate cannot harm me — 
I have lived. There is nothing to be feared, and 
there is nothing to be expected except the kindly 
hand of death, and the opening of another door. 
Perhaps one is a little tired, but the climb, after 
all, was worth it, and one can think here, and 
listen to the cries of birds, and the sound of the 
wind in the grass. The lie of the land over which 
one has come takes on a diferent aspect and falls 
into a pattern. Those woods where one felt so 
lost—how little they were, and how many open¬ 
ings they had, if one had only gone forward, 
instead of rushing in blind circles. . . . 


s 


MADAME CLAIRE 


u Gordon, my tactless grandson, said the other 
day that no one would dream I was nearly eighty 
if it were not for the evidence of the family tree. 
That did not please me. I take as much pride in 
being nearly eighty as I once took in being six - 
teen. After all, being an old woman is my role 
at present, and naturally it is a role I wish to 
play well. Perhaps you } ll say that I would accept 
old age less philosophically if I were blind, or 
deaf, or bedridden. I wonder? Even without 
all one f s faculties, surely there are thoughts and 
memories enough to furnish the mind. (Why, 
why, Stephen, don } t we cultivate CONTEMPLA¬ 
TION?) And that tantalizing veil that shuts us 
off from the beyond should be wearing thin at our 
age, so that by watching and waiting one should 
be able to catch glimpses of what it hides. 

<( And now you will say, ( For Heaven f s sake 
stop moralizing and tell me about Judy? 

“I hate describing people—especially those I 
love, but I will try. She is lovely in her strange 
way, with moments of real beauty. I say strange, 
because she follows no accepted rules. She is 
somber, but lights up charmingly when she smiles . 
I suppose her mouth is too wide, but I like it. 
She _ is dark—the sort of girl who wears tawny 
colors well. She has brains and humor and in 




MADAME CLAIRE 


9 

responsiveness is not even second to Eric. Her 
mother, my daughter Millicent whom you will of 
course remember, is foolishly trying to goad her 
into marriage. How I pity youth! It } s so vul¬ 
nerable! Judy tells me she sometimes wakes at 
night in a sort of fever, hagridden by the thought 
that she may have made a mess of her life by not 
marrying this man or that, fearful that she may 
never meet the right one at all, hating the thought 
of spinsterhood, and, she says, seeing nothing else 
for it. 

“ ‘What,’ you may ask, ‘are all the young men 
aboutV Well, we lost many of our best in the 
war, as you and I know full well, and Judy ex¬ 
pects — everything—And why not, as she has 
everything to give? She is not a girl to make 
concessions easily. Noel, her younger brother, is 
a great joy to her. Do you remember Noel, or 
can you only remember Judy? He was a dear 
little boy in those days, with his prickly, unusual 
notions, and his elfishness. He is not exactly 
good-looking, but his height, and his extremely 
attractive smile make him at least noticeable. He 
lost his left arm in France, and is now finding it 
very difficult to fit into a job. His health was so 
bad before the war that he had never settled down 
to anything, and the doctors had frightened him 



10 


MADAME CLAIRE 


and all of us into the belief that a severe winter 
cold would kill him. Then the war came, and 
three winters in the trenches made a new man of 
him. 

“Gordon, of course, went back to the Foreign 
Office, where he seems perfectly happy. He will 
never fit his grandfather’s shoes, however. Rob¬ 
ert had more wit in his little finger than Gordon 
has in his handsome head—but it is a very hand¬ 
some head. 

“Do you know that I am practicing great self- 
restraint? I have hardly mentioned your godson 
Eric—for fear, perhaps, of saying too much. He 
was away at school when you were last here, so 
he must be a very shadowy figure to you. He 
might have been like a son to you all these years, 
if only you had not cut yourself adrift from us all. 
For five years, you say, you have been almost 
within a day’s journey of England without once 
crossing the Channel. And yet time was when 
London was like a ball at your feet. Your great 
fault, Stephen, is that you take defeat badly. I 
Still believe that you could have turned your po¬ 
litical reverse at least into victory if you had 
stayed. 

“At forty-one Eric is very like what Robert 
was at that age, but more dynamic * Keep that 




MADAME CLAIRE 


ii 


word in mind if you would know him. He infuses 
life into me through his voice, through his smile, 
through his intensely blue eyes. He is impetuous 
and headlong—but headlong always on the side 
of fairness. He has his father’s quick grasp of 
things. He is tremendously interested in what 
you say—in what he says—and in you. When 
he smiles he makes you smile, when he laughs you 
must laugh too. He treats me as if I were an 
interesting old friend whom he likes, as well as 
his mother whom he loves. 

(t His wife—he married Louise Broughton, the 
daughter of old Admiral Broughton — doesn’t in 
the least understand him. If I have a regret in 
the world it is that. But I will tell you more 
about her another time. 

({ And now a few words about Millicent whom 
you knew as a sedate young matron. She is still 
sedate. She is in fact the very embodiment of all 
that is correct and conventional (I almost said 
and dull) in the English character. By that I 
mean that she is always well-poised and com¬ 
pletely mistress of herself whether at Court or in 
her nightdress in an open boat. (Where indeed 
she was, poor thing, for she was torpedoed cross¬ 
ing from America during the war. She had gone 
there to raise funds for the Belgians. An eye- 


12 


MADAME CLAIRE 


witness told me she presided all the time, espe¬ 
cially when it came to handing round the rum and 
biscuits. She was always a good, if stiff, hostess. 
He said that her nightdress, barely covered by a 
waterproof and a lifebelt, became by some mir¬ 
acle of deportment a quite proper and suitable 
garment, and made the women who were wrapped 
in furs look overdressed. I can imagine it per¬ 
fectly.) 

“I have never outgrown a feeling of amaze¬ 
ment at having achieved anything as correct as 
Millicent. She is always certain she is right, and 
she never sees obstacles. When Gordon, Eric, 
and Noel went to the war she never worried, but 
looked quite calmly to their safe return, com¬ 
pletely ignoring the awful and uncertain ground 
between. I believe she thought that the Almighty 
had a special mission to look after Pendletons 
and Gregorys. It seems she had some grounds 
for her belief, only Judy says she forgot to con¬ 
centrate on Noels arm. 

“John, her husband, is as negligible as ever. 
I cannot think what you found in him to dislike, 
unless you, like Nature, abhor a vacuum. 

“As for Connie—my poor Connie! Stephen, 
I don f t know where she is, nor whether she f s alive 
or dead. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


13 

“Get better of your gout and the other things, 
and come to England. After all y there is no place 
like it. Although we are in the midst of winter 
and coal is scarce and dear, and though the de¬ 
scendants of the daughters of the horseleech 
have multiplied exceedingly and cry louder than 
ever, l Give, give, give! } And although even the 
children nowadays seem to lisp in grumbles, for 
the grumbles come, it is still the best country in 
the world and you must come back to it and take 
it to your heart again before—but you hate the 
thought of that, so I won y t say the words. 

“I will write again next week; there is so much 
to tell you . So good-bye, for now. 


“Claire.” 


CHAPTER II 


Dawson thought her mistress must have begun 
to write her “memoyers,” she wrote so long. She 
said as much to Judy and Noel when they came 
to pay Madame Claire a visit the next day. They 
were much interested in the news. Judy remem¬ 
bered “Old Stephen,” as she had called him years 
ago, and identified him by describing a mole that 
he had on one cheek. It was her first experience 
with moles, and for a long time after she con¬ 
fused that little mound on his face, with the big¬ 
ger mounds the moles made in the lawn, and 
thought that a much smaller animal of the same 
species must have been to blame for it. 

As a child she had an extraordinary memory— 
a memory that seemed to go beyond the things 
of this life. She came trailing clouds of glory in 
a way that used to alarm her mother and delight 
her grandmother. Millicent was quite shocked at 
a question of hers when she was four. 

“Mummy, whose little girl was I before I was 
yours?” 

Of course Millicent answered: 


14 


MADAME CLAIRE 


15 

“Little silly, you’ve always been my little girl.” 

But Judy wouldn’t hear of it, and shook her 
head till the curls flew. 

When her grandmother questioned her about it, 
she would only repeat: 

“It was another mummy under the big tree.” 

Millicent was convinced that she only said it 
to annoy. 

Noel too had little peculiarities as a child. 
Loud music always hurt his eyes, he said, and 
when he heard a noisy brass band he would shut 
them tightly and cry out: 

“It’s hideous! It’s so red. I hate that color.” 

He always saw color in music and heard music 
in color, and never knew that he was different 
from other people until he went to school, and 
there the boys teased him out of it. Think of the 
individual oddnesses that are strangled (for bet¬ 
ter or for worse) in school! Limbo must be full 
of childish conceits and strange gleams of knowl¬ 
edge. 

On that particular afternoon the two of them 
amused their grandmother even more than usual. 
They had no secrets from Madame Claire, which 
of course is the greatest compliment the young 
can pay to the old. 

The subject of Judy’s spinsterhood was intro- 


16 


MADAME CLAIRE 


duced by her brother. She had refused a friend 
of his a week before, and he pretended that the 
situation seriously alarmed him. 

“There’s not a man on the tapis at present,” 
he told Madame Claire. “She’s given poor old 
Pat Enderby his walking papers, and I’m hanged 
if I know what she’s going to do now. There 
isn’t even a nibble that I’m aware of.” 

“My dear boy,” said Judy from the other end 
of the sofa, “I’ve got till I’m thirty-five. That’s 
nearly eight years. If I don’t find somebody by 
that time, I’ll know I’m not intended for matri¬ 
mony.” 

“Every woman is intended for matrimony,” 
said her brother judicially. 

“That’s nonsense. And anyway,” Judy de¬ 
fended herself, “I’ve no intention of rushing 
about looking for a husband. I’m quite content 
to stay single as long as I have you.” 

“Rot,” said Noel unfeelingly. “I want a lot 
of nephews and nieces, and Gordon’s would be 
such awful prigs.” 

“So might mine be,” she retorted. “There’s 
no telling, apparently. Who’d think that Mother 
was Madame Claire’s daughter?” 

“Well, if they were prigs, their Uncle Noel 
would soon knock it out of them. Besides, pro- 


MADAME CLAIRE 


i7 

vided you don’t marry a prig—which heaven for¬ 
bid, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be regu¬ 
lar young devils.” 

“You seem to be well up in eugenics, Noel,” 
observed Madame Claire, her eyes twinkling. 
She was sitting near the fire in an old chair with 
a high, carved back. She loved their nonsense, 
and liked to spur them on to greater absurdities. 

“He thinks he is,” Judy said. “But honestly, 
spinsterhood is fast losing its terrors for me. 
One ought to be proud of it, and put it after one’s 
name, like an order of merit. I shall begin sign¬ 
ing myself, ‘Judy Pendleton, V.F.C.’ Virgin 
From Choice. Doesn’t it sound charming?” 

“Horrible!” exclaimed Noel. “I certainly 
wouldn’t advertise the fact. I think spinsterhood 
is awful. I believe I’d rather see you a lady of 
easy virtue than a spinster, Judy.” 

“Really, Noel!” cried Judy. “And before 
Madame Claire!” 

“She doesn’t mind,” scoffed Noel. “Besides, 
she agrees with me. Don’t you, Madame 
Claire?” 

She appeared to consider the question. 

“I think spinsterhood would be less dull, in the 
long run,” she answered. “After all, no one is 


i8 


MADAME CLAIRE 


freer from ties—if that is a desirable thing—than 
the modern unmarried woman.” 

“Of course,” Judy seconded her. “Noel’s point 
of view is ridiculously young. Personally I could 
be quite content if I had some money of my own, 
freedom, and a few friends.” 

“Bosh,” spoke man through the mouth of Noel. 
“If you mean to include men friends, let me tell 
you that men are afraid of unmarried women over 
thirty-five or so. They can’t make them out. 
Neither fish, flesh, nor fowl.” 

Judy did not pretend to dislike men. 

“That’s rather a dreadful thought,” said she. 

Tea arrived at this point, and Noel proceeded 
to make absurd conversation with Dawson, who 
had known the brother and sister from babyhood. 
Absurd, at least, on his part, but perfectly serious 
on hers. She always asked him how his arm was, 
meaning, presumably, the place where they took 
it off. 

“Splendid, thanks, Dawes,” he replied. 
“They’re going to give me a new one soon, I’m 
glad to say. They make wonderful artificial 
limbs now, that can do most anything.” 

“So they tell me, Mr. Noel,” said Dawson, 
arranging the tea things. 

“For instance,” he went on, “the one I’m going 


MADAME CLAIRE 


19 

to have knows all about raising chickens. It’s 
trained specially. I’m thinking of going in for 
chicken farming, you know.” 

“Is that a fact, Mr. Noel?” breathed Dawson. 

“Oh, yes,” went on the deceiver of women. 
“You see, I don’t know a thing about chickens, 
and all I’ll have to do will be just to follow my 
arm about, so to speak. It can tell the age of a 
pullet to a day, just by pulling its leg. That’s 
why they call a young hen a pullet, you know. As 
for eggs, it can find ’em anywhere. It doesn’t 
matter how cleverly the old hens hide them, this 

arm of mine can smell ’em out as quick as wink- 

• >> 
mg. 

Dawson gaped with astonishment. 

“I never would have believed it, would you, 
m’lady?” exclaimed the dear old London-bred 
soul. “They do invent wonderful things these 
days, don’t they now?” 

“Oh, that’s nothing,” went on Noel merci¬ 
lessly. “A chap I know lost both his legs in the 
war. He never was much of a sportsman, but he 
made up his mind he’d like to go in for golf. So 
they made him a specially trained pair of golf 
legs, and hang it all! the poor fellow has to play 
all day long now. The worst of it is he doesn’t 
care much about it, now that he’s had a taste of 


20 MADAME CLAIRE 

it. Bores him, he says. But those blessed legs 
of his, they take him off to the golf links rain or 
shine, every day of his life; and they won’t let him 
off at nine holes, either. Has to play the whole 
blooming eighteen.” 

At this point, Dawson’s slow mind gave birth 
to a faint suspicion. 

“Now, Mr. Noel,” she said, her plain old face 
red with one of her easy blushes, “I believe you’re 
just having me on.” 

“Nothing of the sort,” said he, looking the 
picture of earnest candor, “you haven’t heard the 
half of it yet. Why, another chap I know had 
even worse luck than that. Nice fellow, too—has 
a wife and family. He lost his right arm. Well, 
they made a mistake with him and sent him an 
arm that was specially designed for another chap 
—a Colonel in the War Office—devil of a fellow 
and all that. Would you believe it, every time my 
friend went near a Wraf or a Waac, that arm of 
his nearly jumped out of its socket trying to get 
round the girl’s waist? Awkward, wasn’t it?” 

Dawson’s expression was almost too much for 
him. 

“Don’t look so cut up about it, Dawes,” he 
said, reaching for a cake. “It all came out right 
in the end. He and the Colonel swapped arms, 


MADAME CLAIRE 


21 


and so he got his own, finally. It was specially 
designed for spanking the kids, and as the Colo¬ 
nel was a bachelor it was no good to him. So 
they both lived happy ever after.” 

Dawson was on her way to the door. Before 
making her exit, she turned her crimson face to¬ 
ward Madame Claire. 

“I do wish, m’lady,” she said, “that you’d tell 
Mr. Noel there’s some things that ought to be 
sacred. And I’ll say this, Mr. Noel. The arm 
you want is one that’ll pinch you when you tell 
fibs.” 

“Good old Dawes,” commented Noel between 
mouthfuls. “She generally manages to get her 
own back.” 

Judy and Noel were much interested at this 
time in Eric’s matrimonial affairs. Noel espe¬ 
cially was convinced that he and Louise were on 
the verge of a smash-up. 

“Something’s got to happen,” he said. “The 
tension in that house is too awful. Dining there 
is like sitting over a live bomb and counting the 
seconds.” 

“I can’t think how Eric stands it,” said Judy. 

Madame Claire shook her head. 

“There won’t be an explosion. Nothing so 
dramatic. What I dread most isn’t a smash-up, 


22 


MADAME CLAIRE 


but a freezing-up. Like the Nortons’, Judy. Do 
you remember how they avoided each other’s eyes, 
and never laughed, nor even smiled? Their very 
faces became frozen. It was terrible.” 

“It would take a considerable frost to freeze 
Eric,” Judy remarked with a laugh. 

“Fortunately,” assented her grandmother. 
“What I most admire about him is that he’s al¬ 
ways ready to discuss peace. He’s always hoping 
for signs of friendliness from the enemy.” 

“She treats him like a red-headed stepson,” 
Noel said indignantly. “If he’d only begun by 
beating her now and then-” 

Madame Claire felt bound to make out a case 
for her daughter-in-law. 

“She married the wrong man—for her—that’s 
all,” she said. 

When Noel and Judy had gone, Madame 
Claire sat thinking about Eric and his unfortunate 
marriage. He was, as she had called him in her 
letter, dynamic. He was as impulsive and full 
of the love of life as his wife was joyless and cold. 
His chief charm lay in his perfectly sincere inter¬ 
est in everything and everybody. His mind was 
as elastic as his muscles, which were famous at 
Oxford, and while his wife found most things 



MADAME CLAIRE 


23 

rather tedious, to him there was nothing old un¬ 
der the sun. 

He thought he had married a charming girl, 
and indeed, for a while, she had charm. During 
his impetuous pursuit of her—for some instinct 
told her that the more she eluded him, the more 
eagerly he would pursue—she assumed a delicate 
sparkle that became her well. He could even 
remember a day when she threw out an alluring 
glow at which a hopeful lover might warm his 
hands, but it soon died, and the sparkle with it. 
Love may have told her how to spread the net, 
but of the cage in which to keep him she knew 
less than nothing. 

Madame Claire understood better than any one 
else that he felt ties of the spirit far more than 
he felt ties of the flesh. That peculiarity he had 
inherited from her, for she had often been heard 
to say that she loved Eric because he was Eric 
and not because she had borne him. She de¬ 
clared that her affection for Judy and Noel was 
entirely due to their own charm and attraction 
for her, and had nothing to do with the fact that 
they were her grandchildren. 

“Though I am very glad they were,” she would 
say, “for in that way intimacy has been made 
easy for us.” 


24 MADAME CLAIRE 

With her daughter Millicent she had nothing 
in common but the blood tie, and though she 
rarely confessed it, there were times when it irked 
her. 

/ And so her son found it impossible to be the 
conventional husband who takes his wife for 
granted. He never took Louise for granted for 
a single instant, and it shocked her. He treated 
her with the same courtesy and studied her moods 
as diligently as if she had been some one else’s 
wife. When he made her a present, which he 
liked to do, he expected her to show the same 
pleasure in the gift that she would have shown 
before their marriage. As for her, she would 
have asked for nothing better than to settle down 
into the take-everything-for-granted matrimonial 
jog-trot. When the clergyman pronounced them 
man and wife, he said, so far as Louise was con¬ 
cerned, the last word on the subject. Spiritual 
marriage was an undreamt of thing. She ex¬ 
pected her husband to be faithful to her and to 
look up to her, because, after all, she came of one 
of the oldest families in England. So they were 
rapidly growing apart. Threads had become 
twisted and lines of communication broken. And 
there seemed no good reason for it all. There 
was still a spark among the cooling embers, but 


MADAME CLAIRE 


25 

some wind that was needed to blow upon it had 
shifted and gone elsewhere. 

There were no children—which was a greater 
sorrow to Eric than to the empty-handed Louise. 

“A figurehead of a wife,” Judy called her, and 
it was true enough. 

They lived in a charming house in Brook Street, 
which Louise complained wasn’t big enough to 
entertain in, and was too big to say you couldn’t 
entertain in. She had left the furnishing of it 
to Eric, admitting her own deficiency in the mat¬ 
ter of taste. She bitterly resented his unerring 
instinct for the best thing and the right thing; a 
gift, she chose to maintain, it was unmanly to 
possess. 

“I didn’t know I was marrying a decorator,” 
she was fond of saying. 


CHAPTER III 


Stephen de Lisle’s second letter, eagerly looked 
for by Madame Claire, came the following week. 

“Dear Claire, 

“Thank God for your letter. It’s, put new 
life into me; and I assure you, I needed it , Of 
course ids all tommyrot what you say about old 
age. Who wouldn’t want to run and jump about 
again, and be able to digest anything, and sit up 
late at night? I think this having to be coddled 
and looked after is an infernal nuisance. 

“Yes, I was a fool to take your refusal as I 
did, but that can’t be helped now. You forgive 
me, and besides, I know well enough the loss was 
mine. But I couldn’t have endured London all 
these years. Too many people, too much noise, 
and too much dirt « Still, I may, gout and rheu¬ 
matism permitting, come to see you and my god¬ 
son and the grandchildren yet . I’m glad you 
remembered how fond I was of that child Judy. 
Most attractive child I ever saw . Twenty-seven, 
you say? It doesn’t seem possible. Don’t let 
her get married in a hurry. She is perfectly right 



MADAME CLAIRE 27 

to wait for the real thing. Instinct is the lead 
to follow, and hers is a right one. 

“That was a wonderful letter of yours, Claire. 
I hope there will he many more. They give me 
something to look forward to. I haven’t a half 
dozen young people about me as you have. I’ve 
one niece, Monica de Lisle. Ugly, churchy, un¬ 
interesting female. You may remember her. 

“Cannes is delightful, but alas! I am too old 
to enjoy more than the sun and the color of the 
sky. How do you manage to keep so young in 
your mind? Bob used to say you’d die young if 
you lived to be a hundred, and he was right. 

“I’m reading Shakespeare mostly. I find the 
old ones the best, and he’s the best of the old 
ones . Omniscient, he was. 

“Well, well, write again soon. Don’t tire 
yourself, but—write soon. Do you remember old 
Jock Wetherby? He’s here at this hotel. Tot¬ 
tering on the brink, and ten years my junior. 
Drink — women—all the cheapening vices. Looks 
it, too. 

“Tell me about Judy and the others. 

“Yours ever, 

“Stephen.” 

*‘PJS. — I’ve got the ugliest nurse in Christen¬ 
dom.” 


28 y MADAME CLAIRE 

Madame Claire read extracts from this letter 
to Judy, who was immensely pleased at the im¬ 
pression she must have made. 

‘‘Though what he saw in me, I can’t think,” 
she said. “My chief points, judging from photo¬ 
graphs, were shoe-button eyes, a fringe, and a 
prominent stomach. But there’s no accounting 
for these infatuations.” 

“I do wish he would come to London,” said 
Madame Claire as she folded the letter. “After 
all, London is the best place for old people. They 
get more consideration here than anywhere else 
in the world.” 

The Kensington Park Hotel certainly harbored 
its share. On those rare occasions when Madame 
Claire took a meal in the dining-room she was 
always struck by the number of white, gray, or 
shining pink heads to be seen. And the faces that 
went with them were usually placid and content. 
In the lounge at tea-time they fought the war over 
again, they made or unmade political reputations, 
they discussed the food, the latest play, and most 
of all they discussed—the women at least—Roy¬ 
alty and the nobility. Not even in the drawing¬ 
rooms of the very great were exalted names so 
freely and intimately spoken of. One old dame 
with an ear trumpet, who later comes into the 


MADAME CLAIRE 


y 

2 9 

story, had once or twice, at Judy’s or Noel’s re¬ 
quest, been invited into Madame Claire’s sitting 
room. Noel called her the Semaphore. From 
her they learned what it was the Royal family 
had for breakfast the morning war was declared, 

or what Princess Mary said to young Lord B- 

when he trod on her toe at a dance. How these 
stray bits of gossip or surmise ever filtered their 
way down the old lady’s ear trumpet was a mys¬ 
tery to every one. She was an old woman of 
strange importance. She envied no one under 
Heaven. She possessed a small black instrument 
that seemed to be the focusing point of every fine 
wire of invention. She seemed to be the central 
office of the world’s “They Say” bureau. No one 
was ever rude to her, and no one, except perhaps 
Madame Claire and her grandchildren, ever 
really disbelieved her, because hardly any one does 
altogether disbelieve rumors, even when they 
come from such a source. Her greatness of 
course was at its height during the war, when she 
was generously supplied with the most astound¬ 
ing pieces of secret information by obliging young 
nephews. However, she bore the flatness of 
peace with serenity, contenting herself with the 
doings of the great. Of such, with variations, is 
the kingdom of Kensington! 



3° 


MADAME CLAIRE 


A day or two later Eric and Louise came to¬ 
gether to see Madame Claire. It was so long 
since they had done this that she felt a little 
flutter of hope, believing that it indicated a better 
state of things between them. But she found soon 
enough that she was wrong. Louise was pos¬ 
sessed—in the sense that people one reads of in 
the Bible were possessed—by her own special 
demon of jealousy. 

She was not jealous of any other woman—it 
was far less simple than that. She was jealous 
of the ease with which her husband made friends, 
of his popularity, of his charm. They had been 
guests at a rather political house party, where 
Eric was unmistakably the center of attraction. 
She was aware that she had been more tolerated 
than liked, and the knowledge did not contribute 
to her peace of mind. She was determined to 
make him feel (on any grounds whatsoever) in¬ 
ferior to her. She could understand and respect 
superiority of birth, but she distrusted and re¬ 
sented superiority of intellect. 

“A most successful week-end,” Eric told his 
mother, drawing up a chair beside hers. “Their 
house is lovely, and I am very fond of them all. 
I should like to think that I am one-half as good 
a host as Charles Murray-Carstairs.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


3i 

“I am glad you both enjoyed it,” said Madame 
Claire. 

“Both?” Her daughter-in-law gave a short 
laugh. “Candidly I was bored to tears.” 

Louise was meant to be a pretty woman, but 
having a regular profile and an English wild rose 
complexion, she relied upon them to pull her 
through, and wore her clothes as if she despised 
them. Her hair was never quite tidy at the nape 
of her neck, and her hats of this season were un- 
distinguishable from those of two seasons ago. 
She took a pride in her lack of smartness, and had 
a curious and mysterious belief that it was both 
unladylike and unpatriotic to dress in the fashion. 
Although she was only thirty-four, her girlishness 
had gone so completely that it might never have 
existed. The thin nostrils and small tight mouth 
suggested the woman of fifty. She met Eric’s 
eyes with a look of antagonism. 

“I’ll tell you what the visit was like, Madame 
Claire. We couldn’t go out because of the rain, 
so Eric and Charles had time to ride all their 
hobbies. We had old plate for luncheon, cricket 
for tea, and politics for dinner. I don’t know 
what we had for breakfast. I was spared that 
by not coming down.” 

“You see, mother,” said Eric with a gesture 


MADAME CLAIRE 


32 

of the hands, “the sufferings of a woman who 
is married to a bore. I know of no case more 
deserving of pity.” 

“It’s always the same,” went on his wife, 
“whenever we go away together. But there are 
always plenty of pretty women to hang upon his 
words, Madame Claire, so it really doesn’t 
matter.” 

“Now there,” interrupted Eric with a smile, 
“there you are wrong. Never in my life have 
enough pretty women hung upon my words to 
satisfy me. I should like to see hundreds of them 
so hanging, and the prettier the better. Inaccu¬ 
racy,” he added, turning to his mother, “is one of 
Louise’s greatest faults.” 

“Well, Louise,” said Madame Claire, putting 
a hand in one of Eric’s, “time was when you led 
and others followed. You never used to be 
shy. If you were bored with politics and old 
silver-” 

“I’m not shy,” her daughter-in-law answered. 
“I think subjugated would be nearer the mark.” 

Eric took this up humorously. 

“I have subjugated Louise,” he said with 
mock pride. “I’m willing to wager that no other 
man could have done it under fifteen years, and it 
has taken me only eight. And I’ve never once 



MADAME CLAIRE 


33 

used the whip. Simply and solely the power of 
the eye. I subjugate all my wives,” he added. 
“I am a terrible fellow.” 

He picked up and examined an old spoon that 
lay on Madame Claire’s table, and was about to 
change the subject, when his wife’s cold voice 
interrupted him. 

“Oh, I don’t claim that you’re any worse than 
the general run of husbands.” 

“Thank you, my dear. I can only suppose that 
you took one to yourself in a moment of weak¬ 
ness.” Then, throwing off his annoyance: 

“What a charming spoon! It’s Charles the 
Second. You’ve never shown me this.” 

“Judy gave it to me the other day,” said Ma¬ 
dame Claire, her face brightening. “She’s very 
clever at picking up these things. But then—who 
taught her?” 

“Ah, well, you can’t teach everybody,” he an¬ 
swered, turning it over in his fingers. 

“You can’t, for instance, teach your wife,” 
threw in Louise. “But there’s one thing I have 
learnt since my marriage, Madame Claire, and 
that is my limitations.” 

“You underrate yourself, Louise,” said Ma¬ 
dame Claire calmly. “Do tell me about Gordon. 




34 MADAME CLAIRE 

Noel and Judy believe he’s really interested in 
Helen Dane. Do you think he is?” 

“He’s there a great deal,” answered Eric, 
“but then that may mean nothing. Ottway, her 
father, is a good sort, but pompous.” 

“Lord Ottway has dignity, if that’s what you 
mean,” said Louise. “I hope Gordon does marry 
Helen. It would be very suitable.” 

“As for suitable—I don’t know,” said Madame 
Claire, musingly. “The girl seems a little hard 
—self-sufficient. Still, I don’t dislike her.” 

“I only wish Judy would do as well,” Louise 
went on. “She’s almost certain to throw herself 
away on some nobody.” 

“If he were a nice nobody I shouldn’t mind,” 
said Madame Claire. 

When Louise got up to go, Madame Claire 
followed her into the bedroom where her fur coat 
was. She longed to say something to her. She 
felt that the words existed that might soften that 
bitter mood, but she could not find the right ones. 
She was sick at heart with anxiety. She knew 
that Eric’s patience was at breaking point, and 
that he found his wife’s sarcasm hard to bear. 
Louise had only lately resorted to sarcasm—that 
passing bell of love—and yet, underneath it all, 
Madame Claire felt that she loved him, and 


MADAME CLAIRE 


35 

longed to be different, but that something—some 
strange twist in her nature—would not let her. 
She seemed to her like a woman pushing her frail 
boat farther and farther out into a dangerous 
current, and all the time crying weakly and pite¬ 
ously for help. She doubted if that cry reached 
any ears but hers. 

“I am the only one who can help her,” she 
thought, and at the same time sent up a prayer 
to the god who understands women—if such 
there be. 

A few days later she sent Louise a note, asking 
her to come and see her. 

“If I can only avoid being mother-in-lawish,” 
she thought, “I may be able to accomplish some¬ 
thing.” 

Louise found her sitting in her high-backed 
chair beside a wood fire. The room was full of 
the scent of freesias, and she wore a few of them 
in the front of her gray dress. 

When Louise had put aside her wraps, Ma¬ 
dame Claire began to say what she had to say 
without any unnecessary preliminaries. 

“Louise, I particularly wanted a talk with you 
to-day. I hope you’ll be very frank with me, as 
I mean to be very frank with you.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


36 




“I think you’ll always find me quite willing to 
be frank,” replied the younger woman. 

“Very well then. Perhaps you’ll tell me this. 
Is Eric doing everything he possibly can to make 
you happy?” 

Louise raised her eyebrows. 

“What an odd question! Yes, I suppose he 

is - ns wpII ns he knows how. Whv?” 


is—as well as he knows how. Why: 

“Because it isn’t hard to see that you’re not 
happy, and it makes me very sad.” 

“I suppose people do notice it,” said Louise. 
“I can’t help that. I’m not happy.” 

“Just what I thought. Well, can you tell me 
the cause of it? Eric has succeeded in a good 
many things, and I don’t like to see him make a 
failure of his marriage.” 

“I suppose not.” 

“You two ought to be happy. You have every¬ 
thing; you married for love, presumably. I’m 
sure you’ve done your part. It must be Eric’s 
fault in some way.” 

Louise began pulling off her gloves, her chin 
suddenly trembling like that of a child who is 
about to cry. 

“It’s nobody’s fault, I suppose. We’re simply 
not suited to each other. Eric should have had a 
wife who’d be willing to sit at his feet all day 






MADAME CLAIRE 


37 

long, and tell him how wonderful he is. A sort 
of echo.” 

“Are you sure that would please him? And 
suppose it did—after all-” 

“No!” she said with determination. “There 
are plenty of other people to tell him what fine 
speeches he makes, and how clever he is. I’m not 
going to be one of them. He’ll hear the truth 
from his wife, whether he likes it or not.” 

“So you don’t think he makes good speeches?” 
persisted Madame Claire gently. 

“I dare say he does, but-” 

“I thought you said he would hear the truth 
from you. If he does make a good speech, I 
should think he’d love to hear you say so. If you 
do believe in him and in his ability, Louise, I wish 
you would let him know it. I don’t believe you 
have any idea how much it would mean to him.” 

Louise got up and walked to the window. 

“I have his ability and his cleverness thrown 
at me by his admirers year in and year out,” she 
said. “I’m sick to death of it.” 

“And are you the only one who never encour¬ 
ages or praises him?” asked Madame Claire. “A 
man must find that rather bitter.” 

Louise turned from the window with an abrupt 
movement. 




MADAME CLAIRE 


38 

“I wish him to know that he can’t have ad¬ 
miration and flattery from every one. It will be 
the ruination of him.” 

“Ah! I thought so. So it’s really for his 
good?” 

“Well, as I promised to be frank, no; I don’t 
suppose it is. But I can’t help it. Things have 
always been made too easy for him. Why should 
he be such a darling of the gods? Life isn’t easy 
and pleasant for me. Why should it be for him?” 

“I see.” Madame Claire laughed suddenly. 
“Forgive me, Louise, but there’s something rather 
funny in it.” 

“In what?” 

“In your wanting to be a sort of hair shirt. 
Oh, dear me, I don’t know why I laughed. Only, 
my dear, there’s so very little happiness in the 
world. I’d forgotten there were good people 
going about trampling on it.” 

There was a moment’s silence. 

“I think I’d better go away for a while,” said 
Louise finally. 

“Do!” urged Madame Claire. “It would be 
an excellent thing for both of you. Stay away 
from Eric long enough to be glad to see him when 
you get back.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


39 

“If I were,” said Louise, “I’d never give him 
the satisfaction of knowing it.” 

Madame Claire called once more on the deity 
who understands women. 

“And yet, Louise,” she said, with all her cour¬ 
age, “y°u love him. You love Eric. I know you 
do. Some day you may find out how much, and 
it may be too late. That will be the tragedy. 
You’ll know that you had only to reach out your 
hand—you’re like a child, you know. Have you 
ever seen a child while playing with other chil¬ 
dren, receive some fancied slight, and withdraw, 
hurt? I have. The other children don’t even 
know what the trouble is, and they go on with 
their game. The hurt child stands apart, lonely 
and miserable. They call her presently to come 
and join them, and she longs to go, but can’t— 
can’t! Something won’t let her. Oh, I know, I 
know! I must have been that child once. I know 
what she feels. She stands there kicking at a 
stone, longing, yes, longing to go out into the sun¬ 
shine again and play. She knows that game bet¬ 
ter than they do. They even call to her to come 
and lead them. But she can’t. She sulks. She 
doesn’t want to sulk. She suffers. And then the 
nurse comes, and the play is over, and she is taken 
off to bed. It is too late. It is finished. . . • 


MADAME CLAIRE 


40 

Louise! You stupid child! Isn’t it something 
like that? Tell me, isn’t it?” 

Madame Claire’s finger had found the spot, 
evidently. Louise’s hardness, her bravado, sud¬ 
denly left her. Madame Claire had never seen 
her cry before, and the sight seemed to her very 
pitiful. Her tears made her seem younger. 

“It is like that.” Her voice came muffled from 
the handkerchief she was pressing to her face. 
“But I’m helpless. I can’t be different. I tell you 
I can’t. The more Eric tries to be nice to me, the 
more I harden toward him. The more I want to 
meet him half way, the less I’m able to. I’m not 
hard, really; I long to be different. But it’s too 
late. It’s grown on me now. I can’t stop it. I 
suppose I must go on like this forever. My life 

is a misery to me.” 

* * * * * * 

It was a prayer of thanksgiving that went up 
to the god who understands women that night. 
Madame Claire felt that now all things were pos¬ 
sible. Where there had been a blank wall, there 
was now an open gate—for her, at least. How 
long it would be before the gate would be open to 
Eric, she dared not think. 


CHAPTER IV 


“My dear Stephen, 

“l was delighted with your letter. I believe 
you are feeling better, for you sounded far more 
like your old self. Especially the postscript, 
which I thought a most hopeful indication. 

“Yes, I remember old Jock Wetherby. Poor 
old thing! How perfectly ghastly to approach 
the end of one y s life as a mere elderly libertine. 
For I feel there is very little else one could truth¬ 
fully carve on his tombstone. And what a com¬ 
mentary on free will! He once had gifts and 
opportunities such as are given to few. 

“Last night I went with Judy and Noel to see 
that enchanting sprite Karsavina. I shall never, 
forget it. As a rule one watches people dance, 
but last night I danced too. I swear that my 
spirit left its rheumatic old body and sprang and 
whirled and darted in the midst of all that color 
and movement with the music splashing and rip¬ 
pling about it. For a few hours I bathed in the 
Fountain of Youth—that fountain whose waters, 
I believe, are made up of music, color, and some 

41 




MADAME CLAIRE 


42 

other ingredients that man with his slow mind has 
not yet discovered. Certainly I was never less, 
conscious of flesh and bones. 

“And why is it, I ask myself, that only certain 
combinations of sound and color can produce this 
effect, or give this measure of delight? Suppose, 
one day, some one were to hit upon the utmost 
perfection in arrangement of sound, color and 
form, would it open up a straight path like a shaft 
of light for our spirits to glide upon into some 
other world than this? For I feel we are very 
near that other world when our senses are so 
stirred and lifted up by beauty. I wonder! But 
perhaps there is already perfect beauty in the 
world, and it is only that our spirits lack the neces¬ 
sary freedom from earthly things—or why should 
we not drift into Paradise itself upon the perfume 
of a rose? 

“At the moment my mind is very full not of 
Paradise but of Eric and Louise. She has de¬ 
cided to go and stay with her people in Norfolk 
for a while, where, I fear, she will continue to be 
unhappy. Things had come to a dangerous pass 
with them, and Eric is as sore and puzzled as a 
man can be. Hers is a strange nature. I have 
tried hard to find a chink in the armor of her bit¬ 
terness. Poor Louise! And yet I believe she 


MADAME CLAIRE 


43 

would go to the stake vowing she had been a good 
wife to him. There are a great many women, I 
find, who think that if they neither leave nor de¬ 
ceive their husbands they are being good wives to 
them, I fray that something—God knows whatl 
—will happen, to make a change of attitude easy 
for her. She would have been happy, poor girl, 
with a dull fellow to whom she could have con¬ 
descended. 

“I often say to myself, Stephen, that to realize 
the imperfection of our relation to God, it is only 
necessary to realize the imperfection of our rela¬ 
tion to one another. 

“I have made a discovery of late. At least I 
think it is a discovery. This is it. I believe that 
while the majority of men are content to be merely 
themselves, the majority of women are busy play¬ 
ing some role or other that takes their fancy or, 
that circumstances suggest. I think that most 
women are forever conscious of an audience. I 
shall never forget a girl I once knew—she would 
be a very old woman now—who pretended to have 
lost her lover in the Crimean War. I knew—for 
she made me her confidante—that it was a quite 
imaginary lover, and that she had invented him 
to make people think her inconsolable, instead of 
iinsought, as was actually the case. So for years 


44 MADAME CLAIRE 

she played the role of a bereaved woman, and if 
she is alive she is playing it yet. Every word, 
every action was suited to the part, and eventually 
she must of course have come to believe it herself . 
When she talked to a girl about to be married or 
in love, there was always a trembling smile upon 
her lips, and the brightness in her eye (as the 
novelists say) of unshed tears. 

“ ( Ah, my dear, treasure your happiness. I 
pray you may be more fortunate than I was . 9 

(< And youth knew her for a woman with a sad, 
romantic story. 

“ ‘A liar, pure and simple , 9 you may say. Not 
'at all. Merely an actress playing her part. 

(< Take the case of Louise—a weak nature over¬ 
shadowed by a stronger one. What does she do? 
Creates a role for herself—the role of a patient, 
slighted woman, married to a selfish and exacting 
man. Why? Seen under the microscope we 
might discover it to be an attempt to attract 
notice. 

(( Take the case of my dear Judy. Most of her 
friends are married. She, being very fastidious, 
and finding that falling in love is at present quite 
beyond her, creates a little role for herself—the 
role of a very modern, independent girl who finds 
that sort of love unnecessary to her happiness. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


45 

“Then there is Millicent. She too is playing 
a part, though she would he horrified if I told her 
so. Hers is to he as much as possible like her 
surroundings, and to imitate as closely as she can 
the other women of her set. She has become as 
conventional and as harmlessly snobbish as they . 
At heart she is a kindly creature, but since marry¬ 
ing her John she has disguised herself so well as 
a Pendleton that if I had not a good memory for 
faces I would find it hard to distinguish her from 
all the other Pendletons. 

“And then there was Connie—poor Connie / 
Her role was that of a woman of great emotions, 
of devastating loves—a sort of Camille. But 
underneath it I imagine and hope is still the sim¬ 
ple, credulous woman who looked for happiness 
where happiness was not. 

“ ‘And,’ perhaps you’ll ask, ‘don’t men make 
roles for themselves?’ Rarely; and when they 
do they are insufferable. 

“I am very tired and must stop. Tell me who 
else is at Cannes. 

“Accept my affectionate greetings, 

“Claire.” 

“P.S.—You tell me nothing of your life all 
these years.” 


46 MADAME CLAIRE 

Time never seemed to Madame Claire to pass 
slowly, but it had never passed less slowly than 
now. Stephen de Lisle’s letters undoubtedly 
added a spice of excitement and anticipation to 
her days. She seldom went out (for she disliked 
fog, and London seemed just then to have gone 
to bed with a thick yellow blanket pulled over it) 
and she only asked those people to come to see her 
who, she said, touched her at the most points. 
She hated polite boredoms, and unless her visitors 
pleased or amused her, she preferred to be left 
to her own thoughts. 

Of late her mind had run much upon her young¬ 
est daughter Connie, the beauty of the family— 
Connie who had “thrown her bonnet over the 
mill,” as the saying was in those days, and run off 
with Petrovitch, who was at that time first cap¬ 
turing London and Paris with his marvelous 
playing. 

The blow had nearly broken her father, but 
Madame Claire was made of sterner stuff, and 
had long observed tendencies in her lovely daugh¬ 
ter which promised to lead to this very denoue¬ 
ment. Connie Gregory had one of those entirely 
beautiful faces which seem so at variance with the 
tragedies they evoke. She had the prettiest and 
weakest mouth, and the most irresistible blue eyes 


MADAME CLAIRE 


47 

that ever gave delight to a painter of pretty 
women. And she was “done” by all the fashion¬ 
able artists of the day in every imaginable style 
of dress and posture. She had a very small share 
of wit, but with women like Connie, a little wit 
goes a long way. Her lovely head was forever 
turning to look down dark paths, and no one but 
her mother ever observed those sidelong glances. 
When she was twenty-two, she married a per¬ 
fectly suitable young man, and Madame Claire 
hoped that the then serious duties of wifehood 
and motherhood would fill her shallow little head 
to the exclusion of dark romancing. But they had 
been married less than a year when Petrovitch 
with his leonine head and his matchless playing 
became the rage of London, and Connie, in com¬ 
pany with a good many other women of her type, 
threw her youth and beauty, like a bouquet of 
flowers, at his feet. He was able to resist much, 
but the sheer loveliness of Connie made such an 
onslaught upon his bored indifference—-wherein 
was mingled the most astonishing conceit—that 
when his contracts in London expired, he returned 
to Paris with the emotional and hysterical young 
wife clinging to his arm. 

It was just at the outbreak of the Boer War, 
and Leonard Humphries, her husband, very natu- 


48 MADAME CLAIRE 

rally seized the opportunity of getting himself 
honorably shot. When that event took place, as 
it did some months later, people thought that 
Connie would at least legalize her irregular at¬ 
tachment by marriage, but Petrovitch produced 
a sturdy German wife, and scotched all such 
hopes. So London saw the lovely Connie no 
more. 

Madame Claire bore her trouble with all the 
philosophy at her disposal. She never tried to 
avoid the subject, and was quite as willing to talk 
about Connie as about Eric or Millicent, in the 
wise belief that wounds exposed to the air now 
and then have the best chance of healing. For 
years after she sent letters and often money to 
Connie through her banker, for she knew well 
enough where a lack of funds might lead those 
uncertain steps. For a while her letters were an¬ 
swered, but it was not long before the answers 
ceased to come. She had heard nothing from 
Connie for many years now, and she no longer 
expected to hear. She thought of her as a foolish 
and unhappy woman, whose punishment would be, 
here or hereafter, self-inflicted, and understand¬ 
ing human nature as she did, she refrained from 
bitterness. 

As for Eric, he was of the opinion that the 


MADAME CLAIRE 


49 

world suffers less on the whole from women who 
love not wisely but too well, than from women 
who love too little. Weighed in the perhaps 
faulty scales of a man’s judgment, therefore, 
Connie was a better woman than Louise. Connie 
gave all and got nothing, while Louise took all 
without a thank you, and gave nothing. But men 
are always more inclined to forgive the generous 
sins than the ungenerous. 



CHAPTER V 


“Old Stephen’s” letter in answer to Madame 
Claire’s second one, contained a great deal that 
was of interest to her. 

“Dear Claire, 

“I didn’t answer your last as promptly as I 
wanted to because of the ills of the flesh. How¬ 
ever, I feel freer of them to-day than I have for 
some time past. Your letters get better and bet¬ 
ter. I wish I could write like you. I’ve no gifts . 
I thought once I had a gift for politics. Well, 
perhaps I had, but I hadn’t the gift of pleasing — 
for long. I offended the Great Cham of my day, 
and after that it was like going down a greased 
slide. But better men than I have set their feet 
upon it. I had my say, and I paid for it, and I’d 
say it again if the chance came. 

“You want me to tell you something of my life 
all these years. Well, here is an outline for you. 
After I left England I was in the United States 
for five years. A country gloriously endowed by 
nature, but somewhat spoilt by man. I like Amer- 

50 


MADAME CLAIRE 


5i 

icans individually; l number several of them 
among my few friends, but I’m not sure I like 
them as a race. They y re not a race — that’s the 
trouble—but they will be some day. There’s lit¬ 
tle racial breeding at present. As for character¬ 
istics, if you find them in the South, you lose them 
again in the East or West. You know more or 
less how an Englishman or a Frenchman’s going 
to act, because, exceptions excluded, they run 
pretty true to form. But you can’t guess how an 
American’s going to act until you know whether 
he’s Irish, German, British or Scandinavian 
American. Which complicates matters. 

a Then I was five years in South America — 
three of them in Peru which I grew to love. 
After that—let me see—two in Burmah, one in 
Ceylon, and the last five in sunny spots in France 
and Italy—a sad spectator of war. I’ve enjoyed 
my travels. I have, I hope, learned much. But 
I can’t write about it. I’m no good at that. Can’t 
think how I used to write speeches once—and 
deliver them. I suppose living alone all these 
years has made me inarticulate. Miss McPher¬ 
son’s afraid of me, I believe. Silly little thing. 
That annoys me. 

i( You ask me who else is in Cannes. I’m not 
sure I ought to tell you, but knowing you as I do, 


MADAME CLAIRE 


52 

I think you!d want to he told. Connie’s here — 
with a man of course—and stopping at this hotel. 
Miss McPherson wheels me about in a chair on 
my goodish days, and I came upon them suddenly 
in the grounds this morning. Connie passed by 
without speaking, but I’m certain she knew me. 
She looks the unhappiest woman on God’s earth. 
Later I sent Miss McPherson to make inquiries, 
and it seems they call themselves Count and 
Countess Chiozzi. They may be for all I know. 
At any rate, he looks a dirty little cad. I’ll try 
to speak to her, for I think you would like me to. 
I will leave this letter open for a day or two, in 
case I do. 

“Next day. 

“I spoke to her to-day in the garden. She was 
alone. I said, ‘Connie, don’t you know me?’ 
She went a queer color, I thought, and said, ‘Yes, 
you’re Mr. de Lisle? I said, ‘You knew me yes¬ 
terday,’ and she admitted it. I was in my bath- 
chair (beastly thing!) and I sent Miss McPher¬ 
son away. Then I said, ‘Well, Connie, I see 
you’re the Countess Chiozzi now. Are you in 
Cannes for the winter?’ She said she supposed 
she was; that Cannes did as well as another place. 
She asked me if I’d been in England lately, and 
when I said, ‘Not in twenty years,’ she exclaimed, 


MADAME CLAIRE 


53 

*Then you don’t know whether - ’ and stopped. 

I knew what she wanted to ask f and said, ‘Yes, 
Connie, she’s alive and well, thank God. I heard 
from her only five days ago.’ She sat down on a 
bench, and we talked for some time. She was 
evidently wondering how much I knew, so I put 
her at her ease by saying I knew all about it, and 
I was afraid she was having a pretty rotten time. 
She started to flare up at that, but thought better 
of it, and said, ‘I am. Chiozzi is a devil. I must 
get away from him somehow. I’m at the end of 
my endurance.’ She went on to tell me about her 
life, and the gist of it is this. I’ll tell it in as few 
words as possible. She has always loved Petro- 
vitch, she says, and no one else. He was in love 
with her for a time, then tired of her, as she in¬ 
terfered with his work. She wrote to her hus¬ 
band, asking him to take her back, but before he 
could reply a bullet took his life at Spion Kop. 
A year or two later she met a French officer who 
fell in love with her. They were to have been 
married, but he found out about Petrovitch and 
left her. Connie said bitterly that his life had 
been what many men’s lives are, but she wasn’t 
good enough. After that she went to Rome 
where she met an American named Freeman. She 
married him, and they sailed for New York on 



54 


MADAME CLAIRE 


the 4 Titanic/ He was drowned, hut she reached 
New York without so much as a wetting. She 
tired of New York, returned to Paris, and there 
met Chiozzi. They were married about four 
years ago. She says he is evil incarnate; hut then 
women like Connie haven’t much choice. I asked 
her if I might tell you all this, and she said I 
might, and also sent you her love, hut said she 
couldn’t possibly write to you herself at present. 
She still loves that poltroon Petrovitch, and would 
go around the world to see him, I believe. She 
ought to leave Chiozzi, that much is certain. I 
can see she fears him as much as she hates him. 

44 What a lot of people chuck away their lives 
in learning that passion’s a hoglantern! The 
thing that stands chiefly in the way of human 
progress is the fact that we’ve each got to find 
things out for ourselves. Women found out what 
Connie’s finding out (I hope) two thousand years 
ago. Does that help Connie forward? Not a 
whit. 

44 I can’t write more now. 



“God bless you! 


Stephen.” 


The next day, Madame Claire read the letter 
to Judy, who was keenly interested. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


55 

“Aunt Connie has always seemed rather a fabu¬ 
lous creature—a sort of myth—to me,” she said. 
“I can’t quite realize her. Would you like me to 
go to Cannes and fetch both her and ‘Old Stephen’ 
home?” 

Madame Claire thought not. 

“It’s very odd you should have had three chil¬ 
dren so entirely different,” said Judy. “They all 
had exactly the same environment and the same 
care. How on earth do you account for these 
things?” 

“I don’t,” replied her grandmother. “I can 
merely suppose that they all require different ex¬ 
periences; and they’re certainly getting them.” 
Her eyes rested on Judy in her brown dress and 
furs, and on her face with its challenging dark 
eyes and the too wide mouth that she loved. She 
wondered what experiences would be hers. Not 
Connie’s; and even more surely, not Millicent’s. 
So far her life had been even and tranquil—too 
tranquil for her own liking. She wanted to live. 
She had a great deal to give to life—and so far 
she had not lived at all. 

“I suppose, like every one else,” went on Ma¬ 
dame Claire, “they are working out something— 
I don’t know what. After all, my children are 
just people. So many mothers think of their own 


5 6 MADAME CLAIRE 

children as apart from the rest of the world. I 
don’t. Connie, Eric, Millicent—just people.” 

“Eric isn’t,” protested Judy. “Eric is one of 
the gods come to earth again.” 

Madame Claire laughed. 

“Not Apollo!” she said. “I never liked his pro¬ 
file.” 

“No, not Apollo. A youngish sort of Jove, but 
without his skittishness, or his thunders.” 

“I know what you mean. There is something 
simple and Greek about Eric. It’s nice of you to 
see it.” 

“It’s a great pity he’s my uncle,” remarked 
Judy. “Do you know, your daughter Millicent 
has been extremely troublesome lately? I wish 
you’d speak to her about it. It isn’t only the 
marriage topic. She wants me to pattern myself 
after the tiresome daughters of her most tiresome 
friends. You know the sort of girls I mean. 
They come out in droves each year, and play 
tennis in droves, and get married in droves, and 
have offspring in droves, and get buried beside 
their forefathers in droves. It’s so dull. I hate 
doing things in droves.” 

This amused Madame Claire. 

“Individualists have rather a bad time of it in 
your mother’s particular set,” she said. “Of 


MADAME CLAIRE 


57 

course even I want you to marry, because I think 
you’d be happier in the long run; but not until 
you find some one you can’t do without.” 

“I have a sort of presentiment,” Judy told her, 
flushing, “that if I ever do marry it will be some 
one undesirable. That is,” she hastened to ex¬ 
plain, “undesirable from mother’s point of view.” 

“But not necessarily from mine?” inquired 
Madame Claire. 

“Not necessarily,” returned Judy. 

She walked from the hotel to the house in 
Eaton Square where the Pendletons had lived 
ever since Noel was born, feeling that the world 
was a very blank sort of place at the moment. 
Having done vigorous war work for nearly five 
years, she was missing it more than she knew. 
Millicent could and did respond to the call of 
patriotism, and had seen her sons go forth to war 
like a Spartan mother; but why her only daughter 
should continue to do work long after the coming 
of peace, and when she had a comfortable home, 
social duties and flowers to arrange, was more 
than she could understand. So Judy, weary of 
argument, stayed at home, paid calls and ar¬ 
ranged flowers. She felt something )f an im¬ 
postor, too, telling herself that she had cost her 
parents a great deal, and they were not getting 


58 MADAME CLAIRE 

their money’s worth. She had been educated and 
given an attractive polish for one purpose—to 
attract and wed a suitable man of a like education 
and polish. Being honest to the backbone she was 
distressed about it. She had not fulfilled her side 
of the contract, and her parents had, to the best 
of their belief, more than fulfilled theirs. 

She avoided the drawing-room where there was 
tea and chatter, and hurried to her room, which 
Noel called “The Nunnery,” because of its aus¬ 
tere simplicity. The white walls, quaint bits of 
furniture, and stiff little bed suggested the six¬ 
teenth century. The rest of the house was Milli- 
cent’s affair, and was “done” every few years in 
the prevailing mode by a well-known firm of 
decorators. 

Noel wandered into her room soon after she 
reached it, and while she took off her hat and 
coat, he sat on the foot of the bed, which, if any 
one else had done it, would have seriously an¬ 
noyed her. 

“How’s Claire?” he asked. ’ 

“Wonderful as ever. She’s got more common 
sense, Noel, than the rest of the family put to¬ 
gether. What do you think? She’s heard about 
Aunt Connie, through ‘Old Stephen.’ He saw 
her in Cannes.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


'59 

“Connie?” He whistled his astonishment. 
“The erring aunt! What’s she doing in Cannes ?” 

“She seems to have married some awful 
bounder, fairly recently. A Count Somebody. 
And she’s fearfully unhappy.” 

“Why doesn’t she come home? Afraid of pub¬ 
lic opinion, and mother?” 

“Well—can you wonder? She has no friends 
left, I suppose. It must be pretty awful for her. 
Of course you’ll say she’s made her own bed-” 

“On the contrary, I wasn’t going to say any¬ 
thing so trite. What do you take me for? I’d 
trot her round like anything if she came here. 
It isn’t everybody who’s got a beautiful, notori¬ 
ous aunt.” 

“I’m rather curious to see her,” admitted 
Judy. “Though I don’t suppose we’d like her 
particularly. She must be rather a fool to do 
what she did.” 

“She couldn’t help it,” Noel defended her. “If 
you’re a certain type—well, you just are that type, 
and you act accordingly. That’s what she did.” 

“Nonsense, Noel,” protested Judy. “That’s a 
useless, easy sort of philosophy. According to 
that, no one can help anything they do.” 

“No more they can, if they’re the sort of peo¬ 
ple who do that sort of thing. When they get 



6 o 


MADAME CLAIRE 


over being that sort of people they’ll act differ¬ 
ently, but not before.” 

“That’s a hair-splitting sort of argument,” said 

j udy . 

“Any more than you can help being a spinster,” 
he explained, developing his theory. “Being the 
spinster type, you act accordingly. When you 
pull yourself together and make up your mind to 
be another type, you’ll cease to be a spinster. But 
not before.” 

Judy sat down, facing him. It always amused 
her to discuss herself with Noel. 

“Am I the spinster type?” she asked. 

“Well, aren’t you? It’s fairly obvious. Look 
at this room! . . .” 

“My dear boy,” she retorted, “I’d have a room 
like this if I had ten husbands—or even lovers, 
for that matter. You’ll have to do better than 
that. How else am I the spinster type, apart 
from my room?” 

“You’re a spinster in your mind,” he asserted. 
“,You think celibately.” 

“Oh, now you’re being too ridiculous!” she 
scoffed. 

He crossed his long legs and lit a cigarette. 

“My dear girl, you don’t understand thought. 
What you think, you are.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 61 

“You think you’re a second Solomon,” said his 
sister, “but you’re not.” 

“No.” He shook his head. “I disagree. I 
am entirely modern in my thoughts. I don’t wish 
to be anything else. I’m not like Eric. Eric 
thinks we have had the best. I think we are 
always having the best. But to return to you.” 

“Yes, do return to me. I didn’t mean to cause 
a digression. How can I stop being the spinster 
type?” 

“By not hemming yourself in so much. You 
surround your femininity with barbed-wire em 
tanglements.” 

“Really? They don’t seem to have kept Pat 
Enderby out, and some others I could mention.” 

“They never got in. That’s what I complain 
of.” 

“Oh, but my dear Noel—you surely don’t think 
I’m going to turn myself into a sort of vampire 
just to please you? Not that I couldn’t—I’m 
almost certain I could. . . .” 

“I never meant that. You willfully misunder¬ 
stand me. Vampires are all very well on the 
screen, or on some paving stone in Leicester 
Square, but they don’t go in our sort of life. No 
man would willingly marry one.” 

“They don’t on the screen,” she said. “They 


62 MADAME CLAIRE 

always marry the little thing with curls and the 
baby smile. Is that what you’d like me to be? 
Because I honestly don’t think that’s my type 
either.” 

“I find arguing with women very trying,” ob¬ 
served Noel. “They always drag in unessentials, 
and dangle them before your eyes as if they 
were main issues. Even you do it. As for 
another-” 

“Never mind. Let’s get back to the main is¬ 
sues. I am the main issue—or my spinsterhood. 
What do you want me to do, exactly?” 

“Simply this. I want you to cut the barbed- 
wire entanglements and come out into the open 
now and then. Men aren’t wild animals, after 
all. They’re only human beings.” 

Judy suddenly decided to drop nonsense. 

“Do you know why I keep inside the barbed 
wire?” 

“No. Why?” 

“Because any man that I meet in this house has 
been asked here in the hope that I’ll find him 
marriageable. And so the fairest—the only de¬ 
cent thing I can do is to let him know as soon as 
possible that I’m not in the market, so to speak. 
If he’s a fairly good sort and seems to find me 
at all interesting, I—well, I put up more barbed 



MADAME CLAIRE 63 

wire. Of course I oughtn’t to mind, but it’s all 
so obvious. I hate it. It was different with Pat. 
I liked him, and besides, he was your friend . . . 
but even then . . .” 

“I think girls do have a rotten time of it,” 
agreed Noel. 

“It’s made me self-conscious,” she went on. 
“This business of matrimony always in the air. 
As it is, I wouldn’t raise a finger to attract any 
man.” 

“Not even the right one?” 

“Least of all the right one.” 

Noel got up and stretched himself. 

“Well, old dear,” he said, “I’ll make a proph¬ 
ecy. When you meet the right man—hateful 
phrase—you’ll cut the entanglements, climb the 
barricades, and give yourself up to the enemy. 
That is, if I know anything of my sister Judy.” 

“You don’t. But you’re an old darling just the 
same. Are you in or out to-night?” 

“Out. Dining at the club with Gordon. His 
show! But I’m coming home early. Why?” 

“Oh, nothing. Only I’m dining with the Ben¬ 
netts, and they usually send me home in the Heav¬ 
enly Chariot, so I think I may as well pick you up 
at the club.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


6 4 

“Do. I’ll amuse myself somehow till you 
come.” 

“About ten-thirty or eleven,” she told him. 
“And be on the look-out.” 

“Right-o.” He walked to the door and then 
turned. “And think over what I’ve said, old 
girl.” 



CHAPTER VI 


The “Heavenly Chariot” was Judy’s name for 
the Bennetts’ shining gray car. The Pendletons 
had one of their own, an elderly and dignified 
Daimler, but for some reason unfathomable by 
the younger members of the family, it was never 
allowed out at night, when it was most wanted. 
Millicent thought that Forbes, the old chauffeur 
and ex-coachman, required his evenings to him¬ 
self, and as Forbes had never been known to ob¬ 
ject to this arrangement, it stood, and the family 
relied on taxis, or the underground. 

So that Judy was feeling uncommonly luxuri¬ 
ous close on eleven that night, when the beautiful 
gray nose of the Heavenly Chariot thrust its way 
through the fog that had shut London from the 
sky for three days past. She loved the move*- 
ment, the mystery of the dark streets, the soft 
menace of the fog. 

“This is the very essence of London,” she 
thought. 

They turned into Pall Mall, and she was sorry 
to think that the perfect motion would cease in 

65 


66 


MADAME CLAIRE 


a moment. What happened next, happened with’ 
such amazing suddenness that in three seconds it 
became a problem already to be reckoned with, a 
situation to be met as best one could. 

They had knocked some one down in the fog. 
An instant before she had been reveling in that 
smooth slipping along—almost the annihilation 
of friction—and now, between the ticks of a clock, 
some one, because of this inconsequential little 
journey of theirs, was robbed of health perhaps, 
or life. While her mind was struggling to accept 
a fact so hateful, her feet had taken her to the 
front of the car almost before the chauffeur had 
brought it to a standstill. Their victim had clung 
to that long gray nose—clung for an instant and 
then gone down. Another man was bending over 
him, drawing him gently into the pool of radiance 
their lights made. 

“Chip!” the other man was saying. “Chip, old 
man, are you badly hurt?” 

There was no answer. Judy put her arm under 
the limp man’s shoulder, and they raised him up. 
He stood swaying between them. 

“Take him to the car,” she said. 

A constable (who seemed nebulous all but his 
buttons, which the light caught) loomed up out 
of the blackness, and demanded names and ad- 


MADAME CLAIRE 67 

dresses. Mills, the chauffeur, seemed unable to 
cope with the disaster, which he considered had 
come upon them ready-made, out of the night. 

“It was my friend’s fault entirely,” said the 
other man. “He started to cross without look¬ 
ing.” 

“Can’t be too careful a night like this,” re¬ 
marked the constable, making entries in his note¬ 
book. 

The victim suddenly straightened himself and 
said in a thick voice, “I’m perfectly all right.” 
Then he became limp again. 

It was at this moment that Noel arrived, hav¬ 
ing been keeping a look-out, as instructed by Judy. 
The wail of metal-studded tires being brought to 
a sudden stop had attracted his notice, and he 
came out to see what was up. The constable, 
observing his empty sleeve, addressed him as 
Captain, and things began to progress. Like 
many another policeman who has to do with street 
crossings, this one considered women biological 
absurdities. Mills and the victim’s friend got 
“Chip” into the car and made him as comfortable 
as possible. Noel sat outside with Mills, and 
Judy sat beside the injured man, overcoming an 
almost uncontrollable impulse to draw that bend¬ 
ing head down to her shoulder. 


68 


MADAME CLAIRE 


For the belief had come to her, at the moment 
when she saw Chip’s white face in the glare from 
their lamps, that they had chosen the nicest man 
in all London to knock down. 

His friend, who sat sideways in one of the small 
seats, introduced himself as Major Stroud, and 
the victim, on whom he kept an anxious eye, as 
Major Crosby. 

“He’ll be all right as soon as we get him home 
and to bed,” he assured Judy. “It’s too bad, but 
you’re not in any way to blame. Saw the whole 
thing, so I know. Crosby’s always walking into 
things. He’s everlastingly thinking about that 
book of his. I tried to grab his arm, but it was 
too late.” 

“How badly do you think he’s hurt?” She 
could hear the injured man’s laborious breathing, 
and was heartsick. 

“Oh, just a knock on the head, I expect, against 
that curb. Thank Heaven it was no worse. Your 
chauffeur did splendidly. Can’t think how he 
avoided running over him.” 

“But a knock on the head may mean-” 

“Now don’t you worry about it, Miss-” 

“Pendleton,” Judy said. 

“Miss Pendleton. I’ll ring up the doctor as 




MADAME CLAIRE 69 

soon as we get to his rooms. He’s pretty tough 
—aren’t you, Chip old man?” 

He put an affectionate hand on his friend’s 
knee. At that moment Chip swayed suddenly 
toward Judy’s fur-wrapped shoulder. 

“Better let me sit there, Miss Pendleton,” sug¬ 
gested Major Stroud. “He’s no light weight.” 

“It’s all right,” said Judy. “I was a V.A.D. 
for years.” She slipped her hand down to his 
wrist and felt his pulse. “Why do you say he’s 
always thinking about his book? What book?” 

“Oh, Chip’s a writer, you see. He’s always 
writing something. Just now it’s a book on re¬ 
ligions. Queer hobby for a fighting chap, isn’t 
it?” 

The car sang its way up Campden Hill while 
Judy listened to what Major Stroud had to say 
about his friend. He was evidently devoted to 
him. When they stopped at last, purring softly 
before a narrow house in a narrow turning off 
Church Street, she felt she knew more about the 
two of them than she did about many people she 
had known far longer. 

“Make short work of things now,” said the 
Major in his brisk way as he got out. “Come 
along, Chip old man.” 

Very gently he and Mills lifted him out, and 


70 MADAME CLAIRE 

carried him into the house and up three flights of 
excessively dark and narrow stairs, while Judy 
and Noel followed behind. They had to pause 
once or twice as the weight and length of their 
burden made getting round corners very difficult. 

“I’m going to wait till the doctor comes,” said 
Noel. “Hadn’t you better go home in the car 
now, Judy?” 

“Why should I?” she demanded. “Can't I 
wait too? I dare say I can help. Noel, isn’t 
it ghastly?” 

“I like Chip,” said Noel. “It’s funny, but I 
did the moment I saw him. Didn’t you?” 

Judy nodded, unable to say much. Her throat 
ached, and she knew she was not very far from 
tears. It was so grotesque and unreal, that they 
should have caused this unnecessary suffering. 

Major Stroud telephoned to the doctor, and 
Mills went to fetch him, as being the quickest 
way. Meanwhile Noel and the Major got Chip 
into bed. 

Judy, left to herself, explored the little flat. 
She lit a gas-ring in the tiny kitchenette and put 
a kettle on. Then she found a small store of 
brandy which she brought out in case it was 
wanted. As she busied herself getting ready 
things the doctor might ask for she made herself 


MADAME CLAIRE 71 

well acquainted with Chip’s home. The sitting 
room possessed two solidly comfortable chairs 
and a sofa, all covered in brown linen. There was 
a gate-legged table, two etchings by Rops, and a 
vast number of books on religious subjects. Ex¬ 
cept for the books and the etchings it was as 
impersonal a room as a man could have. It 
touched her, it was so—she searched for a word 
—so starved. 

“Man cannot live by books alone, my poor 
Chip,” she thought. She seemed to see again the 
kindly, tired lines about his mouth and eyes. She 
imagined a lonely life for him, with Major Stroud 
as the only close human tie. They had been 
through two campaigns together, the latter had 
told her. Fancy calling the Great War a cam¬ 
paign! She smiled at the thought. A hard¬ 
bitten man, the Major. She supposed the two 
were about of an age—say, forty-three. Bach¬ 
elors? Oh, undoubtedly. 

Then the doctor arrived—a cheerful, bustling 
man with a short gray beard. He seemed to have 
known the two of them for years. 

“I helped to bring this young man into the 
world,” he told Judy, clapping an affectionate 
hand on the Major’s solid shoulder. That gen¬ 
tleman, who didn’t look as though he could pos- 


MADAME CLAIRE 


sibly have needed help on that or any other 
occasion, smiled a little sheepishly, and then the 
bedroom door closed upon them. Noel and Judy, 
left in unhappy suspense in the sitting room looked 
at one another. 

“Why couldn’t you have knocked down some 
drunken rotter?” asked Noel, walking about the 
room with his hand in his pocket. “Why pick 
out Chip?” 

Strange how the name had made itself at home 
with both of them! 

“Why? Oh, Noel, I can’t bear it to be true! 
Haven’t we dreamt it all? If anything happens 
to him-” 

“If only there are no beastly consequences,” 
said Noel, frowning, “you may have done every¬ 
body a good turn in the end. I mean—he seems 
such a decent sort—I like him. And I think he 
might like us.” 

Judy nodded. 

“But I’m afraid it’s concussion, Noel.” 

“It may be only very slight. Well, we’ll know 
in a few minutes. There was a terrible bump on 
his forehead, but we couldn’t find any other 
marks.” 

“Suppose we’d killed him!” It wasn’t like 
Judy to suppose ghastly possibilities. “If I 



MADAME CLAIRE 


73 

hadn’t gone to the club to pick you up,” she 
mused, “if I’d gone straight home, it wouldn’t 
have happened.” 

“Oh, hush, Judy! What’s the good of all 
that? Look here”—he paused in front of her— 
“Chip evidently isn’t well off. I intend to arrange 
with the doctor, about bills. So you back me 
up, won’t you?” 

“Of course. I’d thought of that too. And 
Noel-” 

“Well?” 

“Let’s keep this to ourselves. I’d much rather 
not tell the family anything about it. Wouldn’t 
you?” 

“Much. It’s our affair.” 

“I’ve hardly spent any of my allowance lately. 
We’ll go halves about the bills. . . . Don’t even 
tell Gordon, will you?” 

“Gordon? He’s about the last person I’d tell.” 

Here the doctor returned, followed by Major 
Stroud. They closed the bedroom door softly. 

“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor told 
them cheerfully, in that hearty voice common to 
the medical profession. “A man might come 
off worse in the hunting field any day, and no 
one make a fuss about it. Slight concussion and 
bruises, and that’s all, young lady.” 



MADAME CLAIRE 


74 

“Well, it’s quite enough,” said she. “I hate 
concussions. And there really are no bones 
broken? You’re not trying to spare our feel¬ 
ings ?” 

“Word of honor as a father of seven. You 
can come and see your victim with your own eyes 
in a day or two. Major Stroud will spend the 
night here on the sofa, and the nurse will be on 
hand in the morning, if she’s wanted. So now, 
Miss Juggernaut, you may roll home with a peace¬ 
ful mind.” 

“You’ve cheered us up a lot, sir,” said Noel, 
shaking hands with him. 

Major Stroud took them to the door, after 
writing down their telephone number on a pad 
that the methodical Chip had hanging over his 
desk. 

“You’ll tell him, when he comes to, how sorry 
we are, and how . . . how anxious?” 

But the Major shook his head at her. 

“I’ll leave that to you,” he said as they parted. 
“He’ll get the devil of a talking to from me— 
careless beggar.” 

They gave the news to the waiting Mills, and 
drove home with little talk. When Judy reached 
the door of her room, she kissed Noel good 
night. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


75 

“I’m glad we decided not to tell any one,” she 
whispered. “Mother would look him up in 
Who's Who . It would be horrible.” 

“What about Claire?” 

“Oh, we can tell her, of course.” 


CHAPTER VII 


Madame Claire was glad she was not included 
in the ban of silence. She was much interested 
in the affair. She was also—though she took 
care not to let Judy see it—a little excited. It 
was not, she felt, one of those incidents that seem 
to have no consequences, nor leave any mark. 
Something new, she believed, had been set in 
motion, and that something new meant to poke a 
disturbing finger into Judy’s life. But she for¬ 
bore to ask too many questions. 

She heard about it the next day, and Judy 
told her that Noel had already talked to Major 
Stroud over the telephone, and had learned that 
Major Crosby was still unconscious. 

“He told Noel we were not to worry—the 
doctor’s orders I believe—and then he went on 
to say that he’d once been unconscious for twenty- 
eight hours himself, and had come to at the end 
of it as lively as a cricket. But then he’s a hope¬ 
less optimist, and you never can believe optimists.” 

“You and Noel seem to have taken him to 
your hearts from the first,” commented Madame 

76 


MADAME CLAIRE 77 

Claire. “Chip, I mean. Well, I’d back your 
judgments against anybody’s.” 

“I think you would have felt like that too. 
But he isn’t going to be easy to know,” said her 
granddaughter. 

“Isn’t he? Why?” 

“He’s very shy,” answered Judy. “He had 
the shyest rooms I ever saw. Not a photograph 
to be seen, nor an ornament, nor even a novel. 
You know, you can guess at such a lot if there 
are things like that about to help you. No, there 
wasn’t a single clue. But the greatest clue, in a 
way, was the lack of clues. As though, because 
of his shyness, he had tried to cover up his tracks. 
I don’t think he wants to be known.” 

“If he had to be knocked down by a motor,” 
said Madame Claire, “I consider it a fortunate 
thing that you were in it. After all, it might have 
been any Tom or Dick—or Miss Tom or Dick.” 

“I only wish he might take that view of it,” 
answered Judy. “What news of Louise?” 

Madame Claire hoped to hear more about 
Chip, but she was always quick to feel when a 
change of subject was wanted. 

“She’s with her people in Norfolk. She wrote 
Eric that she was enjoying the change, but that 
she felt it was her duty to come back at the end 


7 8 MADAME CLAIRE 

of the week. Of course Eric wrote to her that 
she wasn’t to think of him, but that she must 
stay as long as she felt inclined.” 

“How that must have annoyed her! For what 
she wanted was to come home as a martyr before 
she was ready. What a woman! Don’t you 
think it a miracle that Eric doesn’t fall in love 
with some one else?” 

Madame Claire shook her head. 

“I doubt if he ever will. He finds consolation 
in his friends, and in his books, and in his work 
of course. Eric isn’t a man who falls in love 
easily. And besides, I can’t help thinking that 
he still has hopes of Louise.” 

“You think he still loves her?” 

“Louise is his wife,” answered Madame Claire, 
“and I believe that it hurts Eric intolerably to 
feel that the one person in the world who should 
be nearest to him, and who should understand him 
the best, deliberately keeps aloof. He feels he 
has failed—and Eric hates failure.” 

“If he has failed, it isn’t his fault,” said Judy. 
“It isn’t for lack of trying. If he’d been just a 
nonentity she’d have enjoyed condescending to 
him. As long as he is what he is—sought-after 
and charming—she’ll be what she is—jealous and 
bitter. I don’t see how he stands it.” 








MADAME CLAIRE 79 

“Like Eric,” Madame Claire said gently, “I 
can’t help hoping.” 

A day or two later, Judy found her reading a 
letter from Old Stephen. 

“There’s a good deal about Connie,” she told 
her. “Isn’t it odd the way she seems to be com¬ 
ing into our lives again? Here’s what he says: 

“ ‘And now a few words about Connie and her 
Count . I’ve talked to him several times, and 
he } s like some poisonous thing in a stagnant pond. 
I do wish you could persuade her to leave him> 
for he insults and humiliates her at every turn. 
She confessed to me yesterday what I already 
suspected—that he had gambled away most of 
his money and much of hers at Monte Carlo, and 
that he is constantly demanding more. I think 
it would be advisable for Eric to come here if 
he possibly can. She is frightened y and her nerves 
are on edge. I suppose he threatens her y poor 
woman. What do you think ought to be doneV ” 

“He stopped there,” said Madame Claire, 
“and finished the letter next day. I’ll read you 
the rest. 

u ‘I was interrupted yesterday by Miss Me - 
Pherson, who wouldn y t let me write more. So I 


80 MADAME CLAIRE 

left the letter open, and Pm glad I did, for there 9 s 
a sequel. Connie left here this morning for Paris, 
without a word to anybody. I thought she would 
have written me a letter to say good-bye, but she 
hasn 9 t. I don 9 t know what brought matters to 
this head, but I suspect it had something to do 
with Mademoiselle Pauline, the dancer, with 
whom the Count has been spending much of his 
time, and more, 1 imagine, of his money . Miss 
McPherson, who has her human side, has taken 
a considerable interest in Connie 9 s affairs, and 
tells me she is sure there was a scene of some 
sort last night. However that may be, Connie 
has gone. They told me at the office that she 
went to Paris, but left no forwarding address . 
Well, my dear Claire, I fear all this will distress 
you, but you have a brave heart, and would wish 
to know. If you have any idea where Connie 
would be likely to have gone, to what friends or 
to what hotel, I cannot help thinking it would 
be wise to send Eric to look for her. I say this 
because she seemed to me a desperately unhappy 
woman / 

“That’s all about that,” said Madame Claire, 
putting the letter away. 

“What do you think ought to be done?” Judy 
asked her. 



MADAME CLAIRE 


81 


“Eric is coming here to-night, and I’ll talk it 
over with him. If he can spare the time to go 
to Paris, I think it would be a good thing.” 

“But if he doesn’t know where she is?” 

“I think I can guess,” answered her grand¬ 
mother. “Years ago, before the children were 
grown up, we used to go and stay at a little 
private hotel off the Avenue de la Grande Armee. 
In the autumn I recommended it to a friend of 
your mother’s, and she was delighted with it. 
Judging from her description, I don’t think it 
can have changed much. She told me that the 
granddaughter of the old Madame Peritot re¬ 
membered me perfectly and said that Connie, 
whom she described as £ la belle Madame,’ often 
went there when she wished to be quiet. I feel 
sure she would wish to be quiet now, and I believe 
that if Eric goes there he will find her.” 

“Do you want him to bring her to London?” 
inquired Judy. 

“I think I had better leave that to him,” 
answered Madame Claire. 

****** 

Eric went to Paris the day following. He had 
no idea, when he left, whether he would try to 
persuade Connie to come back to London or not. 
He would decide that when he had seen her. Nor 






82 MADAME CLAIRE 

did he explain matters to Louise, to whom the 
very name of his once beautiful sister was anath¬ 
ema. He sent her a wire, however, which said 
merely, “Called out of town for few days. Prob¬ 
ably back Monday.” 

He had been working very hard, and welcomed 
a change of scene. He had not been out of Eng¬ 
land since serving with his regiment in France, 
and later in Italy, from which campaign he was 
invalided home shortly before the Armistice. He 
was now member for a London borough, having 
given up soldiering for politics. His rather dis¬ 
concerting honesty and policy of no compromise 
won him more friends in the former calling than 
in the latter, and though he had enthusiastic 
friends he had equally whole-hearted enemies, 
among whom he began to fear he must number 
his wife. 

The thought of a lifelong companionship with 
a woman who disliked, or seemed to dislike his 
every attribute, appalled him. He had a way 
of reducing problems to their simplest form, and 
being a clear thinker, saw facts in all their naked¬ 
ness. Louise was his wife. He had tried to make 
her happy. She either liked him or she did not. 
If she did not like him, why live with him? And 
if she did like him, why not show that she did? 




MADAME CLAIRE 83 

It came to that. Other women liked him. Why 
could not his wife? He had never tried to please 
any other woman as he had tried to please her. 
The thing was an enigma. They could have had 
such delightful times together, for they had every¬ 
thing—health, youth, money, friends. Her cold¬ 
ness was inexplicable. She was not only cold to 
him, but to all men, and to most women. If she 
had cared for any one else he would have found a 
way to release her. He tried to put it out of his 
mind on the journey to Paris, and thought instead 
of Connie. He had been so proud of her beauty 
in the old days. He remembered her at dances, 
surrounded by respectfully admiring young men. 
How she had queened it for a while! And then 
—Petrovitch! 

From Calais he shared a compartment with a 
rather charming woman with whom he fell easily 
into talk. He had a gift of nonsense which, when 
he cared to use it, most people—his wife of 
course excepted—found irresistible. So they 
sparred pleasantly till the train neared Paris. But 
in the end she struck a too personal note, talking 
about herself and her affairs with an astonishing 
lack of reserve, whereupon he liked her less. 
When they separated she gave him her address, 
but he forgot both it and her. She never forgot 


84 MADAME CLAIRE 

him. If he had liked her more they would have 
parted friends, or on the way to friendship, which 
would have annoyed Louise, who only made 
friends with people she had known or known of 
for years. But her candor was without simplicity, 
and her impulsiveness not without calculation, so 
she passed out of his life, for he was fastidious 
about women. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Eric drove at once to the little hotel off the 
Avenue de la Grande Armee, and made himself 
known. He had wired for a room at the Crillon, 
preferring not to stay too near Connie lest he 
should find her surrounded by sympathetic friends. 
He dreaded her friends. 

The granddaughter of old Madame Peritot, a 
pleasant-faced woman named Le Blanc, gave him 
a cordial welcome, asked immediately after Ma¬ 
dame Claire and then told him in answer to his 
question that Madame la Comtesse was resting, 
but would undoubtedly see her brother. Who 
indeed, she thought, would not be glad to see such 
a brother—a brother with such delightful man¬ 
ners, whose blue eyes—Ciel! Madame Le Blanc 
was enchanted by the blueness of his eyes. 

Eric waited in the little salon, remembering 
incidents of their extremely happy childhood. 
Madame Claire had so often brought the three 
of them there, during vacations. They had nearly 
always come to Paris en route for the coast of 
Brittany or Normandy when the Roman summers 

8 s 




86 


MADAME CLAIRE 


became unbearable. He remembered how he and 
Connie, an exquisite, long-legged child of fifteen, 
had knocked over and broken a Dresden group 
during a scrimmage. They had secretly substi¬ 
tuted for it another almost exactly like the first, 
except that the dress of the shepherdess which 
had been blue with pink flowers, was now pink 
with blue flowers. There it stood, just where 
their guilty hands had placed it, so many years 
ago, and he could not resist taking it off the 
mantelpiece and examining it. It was one of old 
Madame Peritot’s most prized possessions, and 
how they laughed when they realized that she 
had never noticed the difference! It might easily 
have met the fate just then of its unlucky prede¬ 
cessor, for he nearly dropped it, so suddenly and 
quietly did Connie enter—and such a Connie! 

It was characteristic of Eric that he never said 
anything suitable to occasions. He kissed her 
cheek, and then said, holding her at arm’s length 
and looking at her: 

“You must come and dine with me. What do 
you say to a sole and a broiled chicken some¬ 
where?” 

But Connie felt that something more was due 
to the situation, so she clung to his arm and found 
—or seemed to find—speech difficult. 


MADAME CLAIRE 87 

“Eric! Is it really you? My God! After 
all these years! Oh, Eric!” 

“Nearly twenty, isn’t it? And thirty or more 
since we broke the Dresden group there. Go 
and put your hat on. What a pretty dress!” 

“You like it?” She turned about with some¬ 
thing of her old grace and coquetry. “You were 
always quick to notice nice things. But how did 
you know where to find me, and why did you 
come? This seems like a dream to me. And 
you’re still so good-looking!” 

“Thank you, my dear. No one has ever told 
me that. It is charming of you. I came to see 
you. Mother guessed you would be here. And 
now go and put on your hat, for I’m very 
hungry.” 

“In a moment. I want to look at you. . . . 
I’d almost forgotten I had a brother. But how 
did you know I was in Paris at all? That meddle¬ 
some old Stephen de Lisle, I suppose, bless him!” 
Then her beautiful voice deepened. “Eric, I’ve 
got very old, haven’t I? Tell me the truth.” 

Eric told it in his own way. 

“I’m afraid I never think about age,” he said, 
“so it’s no good asking me. I think you look 
worried. Come, we’ll dine early. There’s a 


88 


MADAME CLAIRE 


great deal to talk about. And don’t change. I 
like you in that.” 

“I won’t be long.” She went to the door and 
then turned. “I’m being taken out to dinner by 
my own brother,” she said softly. “You make 
me feel quite—respectable, Eric.” 

Her last words hurt him. If there had been 
any one with him he would have said as she left 
the room: 

“Good God! The pity of it!” 

It wasn’t age he meant. He cared as little for 
that as most intelligent men. Connie had lost 
her youth. That was to be expected. But she 
had never gained its far more interesting suc¬ 
cessor, character. It was that he missed. She 
was spiritually, mentally and morally down at the 
heel. Her face was a weary mask, her yellow 
hair had known the uses of peroxide as well as 
of adversity, and her blue eyes, paler than her 
brother’s, looked out, without expression, from a 
rim of carelessly darkened lashes. The frank 
vulgarity of her scarlet lips revolted him. 

“All that,” he said to himself, “to win a— 
Chiozzi!” He had hurried her off to get her hat 
because he couldn’t bear to talk to her in that 
room of childish memories. It brought back to 
him too clearly the girl of fifteen, with her exqui- 


MADAME CLAIRE 


89 

site, sparkling face, her laughter, and that mane 
of fine golden hair that people in the streets too 
often turned to stare at. . . . He meant to help 
her, he had come to help her—but how to go 
about it? That he must leave to the inspiration 
of the moment. 

When she returned, handsomely furred and too 
youthfully hatted, he gave her another kindly 
kiss to encourage her—for he could see that she 
was really moved—and took her arm as they went 
to the door. An old woman in another salon 
across the hall had observed their movements 
with the keenest interest. She carried an ear 
trumpet, but thanked Heaven that her eyes were 
as good as ever. Good enough to distinguish the 
paint on that woman’s cheeks—which had not 
prevented Mr. Gregory from kissing her. Lady 
Gregory’s only son! She knew he had married 
the youngest daughter of old Admiral Brough¬ 
ton, a great friend of the late King’s. He had 
once been heard to say to him at a garden party 
—it must have been in 1907— There, they are 
getting into a cab together. He has taken her 
hand—off they go! Dear, dear! How very dis¬ 
tressing! Poor Lady Gregory, and poor neglected 
wife! It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen it with her 
own eyes. And she hadn’t lived in this wicked 





9 o MADAME CLAIRE 

old world for sixty-nine years—even though most 
of them had been spent in Kensington—without 
knowing a demi-mondaine when she saw one. 
Odd she was to see Miss Thomkinson, a cousin 
of the Broughtons, the very’ next day. No, 
shocked as she was at the presence of such a 
woman in that house, she preferred not to speak to 
Madame le Blanc about it. It didn’t go to enter 
into arguments with these French people, and be¬ 
sides, her vocabulary wasn’t equal to it. 

In the cab, Eric said gently: 

“Well, Connie, my dear, I’ve come to help you 
in any way that I can, and to take you back to 
England with me if you wish to go. I gather 
that your marriage is anything but happy. Tell 
me about it.” 

Connie tried to speak but her efforts ended in 
a sudden burst of tears. She sobbed openly and 
unbecomingly. Eric, his eyes full of pain and 
concern, held her hand and looked out of the win¬ 
dow at the once familiar streets. She had lived 
on her emotions for so long that self-control, 
he supposed, was utterly beyond her now. It was 
true that she had cried whenever she had felt 
inclined, during the whole of her unhappy, stormy 
life. But she usually cried for a purpose. This 
was different. Something, probably the amazing 


MADAME CLAIRE 


9i 

matter-of-factness of her brother, had touched 
the springs of her self-pity. At one step he had 
spanned all that had happened in the last twenty 
years. He was so entirely unchanged, while she 
—his eyes were as clear as ever, his fitness obvious 
at a glance, and his face scarcely lined. He repre¬ 
sented all that she had lost, all that was sane and 
clean and wholesome. He reminded her of child¬ 
ish cricket, and nursery teas, and days on the 
river, and May Week, and clean young men in 
flannels. She had not met a man of his type since 
she had left her husband. She loved the faint 
scent of lavender that lingered in the fresh folds 
of the handkerchief he presently offered her. She 
wondered if it would be possible for her to go 
back with him, into the well-ordered life that he 
and his kind led, away from the shoddy women 
who had been her companions for years and the 
men who were rotten to the core. 

“It has been a shock to you,” Eric said. “I 
should have warned you.” 

She shook her head. It wasn’t that. What it 
was she didn’t feel capable of telling him now. 

She wiped her eyes and cheeks recklessly with 
his handkerchief. Her make-up was ruined, and 
for the moment she didn’t care, but presently at 
the sight of the well-filled restaurant she pulled 


MADAME CLAIRE 


92 

herself together, and while Eric ordered dinner 
she busied herself repairing her haggard mask. 
No matter how badly Connie was looking, people 
always observed that she was a woman who had 
once been very beautiful. She joined him at the 
table in a few minutes, looking as though tears 
were as foreign to her nature as to a statue’s. 

It is characteristic of Connie’s sort that they 
forget they have made a scene two minutes after 
it is over, and imagine that others forget as easily. 
She glanced about the crowded room as she sat 
down, hoping that she might be seen in the com¬ 
pany of such a man. She was proud of him, and, 
to do her justice, proud of the fact that they were 
brother and sister, forgetting that in twenty years 
a resemblance that had once been remarkable had 
nearly vanished. 

Before dinner was over, she had given him an 
outline of her life down to the present with com¬ 
mendable honesty. She had no wish, apparently, 
to gild the ugly sordidness of some of it, though 
she made it appear that her misfortunes had 
come to her more through the faithlessness and 
selfishness of men than through her own weak¬ 
ness. And yet men, it was obvious, were still her 
chief interest in life. As she talked to Eric her 


MADAME CLAIRE 


93 

glance often wandered, and she made much play 
with her still beautiful hands. 

Her dread of Chiozzi and his treatment of her 
seemed to Eric the most important part of her 
story. It was that he had to deal with now. She 
said he had threatened her life more than once in 
order to extort money from her. Her income 
had dwindled to barely seven hundred a year, all 
that remained of the considerable fortune left her 
by Morton Freeman. That much she had man¬ 
aged to keep intact, in spite of the efforts of her 
greedy Count. 

“If I go back to him,” she said with a shudder, 
“he’ll have it all.” 

Eric dreaded the idea of a divorce. Her affairs 
had already had so much unsavory publicity. 

“You must not think of going back to him at 
present,” he told her. “Later we will see what 
can be done. You can write to him from London, 
if you wish.” 

“I dread London.” 

“You will be safest there. And you will find 
that people have forgotten. You must try to 
begin again, my dear, and be content with con¬ 
tentment, and simple things. You will not find 
life exciting, but you may find it pleasant. I will 
do what I can, and you will have mother, who is 



MADAME CLAIRE 


94 

a marvel of marvels. I would suggest a little 
house in the country, or a small flat in town.” 

She considered this, smoking a faintly perfumed 
cigarette. 

“What are Millicent’s children like?” 

“They’re delightful. You’ll love Judy and 
Noel.” 

“But Millie won’t let them know me.” 

“I doubt if Millie will have very much to say 
in the matter. If they choose to know you, they 
will.” 

“And your wife—Louise?” 

He hesitated. 

“You may find her difficult.” 

“How difficult? One of those . . . those 
good women, I suppose.” This with a sneer that 
made Eric wince. 

“Louise is very . . . indifferent. Frankly, she 
doesn’t care a straw for me.” 

“Not care for you? She must be a fool.” 

He inclined his head in the slightest of bows. 

“You are my sister, and prejudiced.” 

“I know a man when I see one, whether he’s 
my brother or not.” She gave a short laugh. 
“Mon Dieu! I ought to, by this time.” 

“My wife,” said Eric, “considers me a tiresome 


MADAME CLAIRE 


95 

and conceited fellow. She dislikes a great many 
things about me; no doubt with reason.” 

“Jealous,” commented his sister, who could see 
through other women. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“So some of my friends say. I cannot under¬ 
stand it. But you needn’t see much of each 
other.” 

“I think I know her sort,” said Connie, watch¬ 
ing the smoke from her cigarette. “Well, we both 
seem to have made a mess of things.” 

This struck Eric as humorous, but not a sign 
of his amusement appeared in his face. 

“Where is Petrovitch now?” he asked her. 

She smiled to a passing acquaintance before she 
answered. 

“In America, I believe. Still lionized and ap¬ 
plauded. It seems to me, Eric, that men have 
nine lives to a woman’s one. Look at me . . . 
a worn-out wreck, while he-” 

“A bad fellow, Connie,” said Eric; at which 
she bit her lip. 

“I can’t let you say that. I love him.” 

“Still?” 

She nodded. 

Eric looked at her as though he would like to 
see into her mind. 



MADAME CLAIRE 


96 

“Tell me this. I ask you as I might ask any 
woman in your place. Has it been worth it?” 

Her eyes fell, and she seemed to be groping 
for words. Then she rose from the table, gather¬ 
ing up her long gloves and beaded bag. 

“I would tell you, if I knew,” she said at last. 
“But I don’t know. I suppose I have lost all 
sense of values.” 

“That is answer enough,” he replied. 

* * * * * * 

As they drove back to the hotel she turned to 
him and said: 

“When do you want me to be ready?” 

“I ought to go back to-morrow,” he told her. 
“Would that be possible for you?” 

“Yes.” Then, a little dramatically, “I place 
myself in your hands, Eric. Do with me what 
you will.” 


CHAPTER IX 


It was just a week after the accident that Judy 
and Noel went to Campden Hill to see Major 
Crosby. A message had come at last from Dr. 
Ferguson to the effect that if Miss Juggernaut 
and her brother cared to see their victim, they 
might do so between three and five that after¬ 
noon. 

Major Stroud had rung them up almost daily, 
and Noel had found it difficult to account to the 
family for the sudden interest taken in him by 
some one they had never heard of before. For it 
was a household in which reticence was frowned 
upon and discouraged. Only Gordon, being the 
eldest son, was permitted to go and come without 
explanations. He was naturally secretive, and on 
the few occasions when he was pleased to give an 
account of his doings, his mother listened to him 
with something very like reverence. So Major 
Stroud became “a fellow at my club,” which, as 
it chanced, he was, and Millicent gave up the 
attempt to penetrate further. 

Judy had never felt as shy as on that Wednes¬ 
day afternoon in the middle of January. She and 

97 




98 MADAME CLAIRE 

Noel rode up Campden Hill on a bus, and walked 
briskly, for it was a bitter day, from Church 
Street to Chip’s rooms. 

On the way up the stairs she said: 

“Don’t leave me to do all the talking, Noel. 
I feel idiotically nervous. I don’t know what to 
talk about.” 

“Chuck maidenly modesty to the winds for 
once,” he advised, “and talk about the weather.” 

“You’re not very helpful.” 

“And when you’ve done with the weather, 
there’s always the climate.” 

“Thank you.” 

“What I mean is, why not just be natural? I 
expect he’s safely unmarriageable, from the 
money point of view. So you can let the barbed 
wire alone.” 

“Anyhow,” she said thankfully, “Major Stroud 
will be there, and he’s always noisy and cheerful.” 

He was there, and at their knock admitted 
them, looking very large and out of place in the 
narrow hall. He was one of those men who 
seem to belong astride a high, bony horse, or in 
the solid armchair of a spacious London club. 
He shook hands with great heartiness, and led 
the way to the sitting room with a loud and 
reassuring tread. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


99 

“Visitors, Chip, old man,” he announced, and 
flung open the door. 

Chip was lying stretched out on the sofa, pil¬ 
lows behind his head and a striped rug across 
his knees. His quiet manner of welcoming them 
seemed to Judy to contrast almost humorously 
with his friend’s bluff cheeriness. 

He had a nervous little speech all ready for 
them. 

“I’m ashamed,” he said, “to be the cause of 
all this bother. It’s most awfully good of you to 
come. You’ll forgive my not getting up, won’t 
you? I’m not allowed to, for some reason.” 

“I should hope not,” said Noel, as they shook 
hands. 

“As for being a bother,” Judy told him, “that’s 
the sort of thing invalids say when they know 
they’re not strong enough to be shaken. Major 
Crosby, I can’t—I can’t tell you how sorry we 
are.” She hurried on, fearful of showing emo¬ 
tion. “Let’s not say any more about that part 
of it. You know what we feel. . . .” 

“And after all,” put in Major Stroud, after 
the manner of Major Strouds, “accidents will 
happen, ye know, and as I tell Chip, he simply 
barged into you.” 

“Well,” said Judy, “it’s silly, both sides 




100 


MADAME CLAIRE 


saying it’s their fault. But there are two good 
things about it. The doctor says you’ll soon be 
all right again, and—well, if it hadn’t been for 
what happened that night, we’d never have met, 
would we?” 

“That’s a good effort, Judy,” Noel encouraged 
her. “I second everything you’ve said. But let’s 
cut out speeches now.” 

They all laughed, and after that it was easier 
to talk. 

Major Stroud monopolized Noel, to whom he 
seemed to have taken a great fancy, and Judy 
found herself cut off from the other two, in a 
chair beside the sofa. For there is no room so 
small that a party of four cannot quite easily 
split up into twos. 

Major Crosby looked much as Judy had ex¬ 
pected him to look. That first sight of his face 
in the light from the car’s lamps was, she knew, 
one of those mind pictures that refuse to fade. 
She was uncertain about the color of his eyes, 
which now proved to be gray, and though they 
smiled and had a habit of smiling as the lines 
about them showed, there were other lines about 
the forehead that spoke of anxiety. His hair 
was of that fine and unreliable quality that aban¬ 
dons its owner early in life, and Chip was already 


MADAME CLAIRE 


IOI 


a little thin about the top. His long legs under 
the rug displayed pointed knees, and he moved 
his thin, well-shaped hands nervously. 

“If I can only put him at his ease with me!” 
^thought Judy. 

They talked commonplaces at first, and then, 
stretching out her hand, she said: 

“May I see what you were reading?” 

He picked up a finely bound book that lay be¬ 
side him on the rug, and gave it to her. 

“I don’t know why it is,” he said, smiling, “but 
one always feels slightly apologetic when discov¬ 
ered reading poetry.” 

It was The Spirit of Man> and Judy was 
conscious of a feeling of satisfaction. They liked 
the same books, then. 

“It’s a dear friend,” she said. 

“Really? I’m glad of that.” 

“I didn’t see this,” she went on, “when I was 
prowling about the room the other night. For I 
did prowl, I admit it, and I found nothing but 
books on religion. You see I had to do some¬ 
thing while I was waiting for the verdict.” 

“I expect it was in my room,” he explained. 
“When the book I’m working on gets the better 
of me, or when I’m tired of it, I turn to that.” 

“You’re very wise.” She put the book on a 


102 


MADAME CLAIRE 


table. “Now tell me about your own book. 
Major Stroud spoke of it the other night, and 
seemed to think it was to blame for the accident.” 

He laughed. 

“He thinks it’s to blame for everything. It’s 
very dull, I’m afraid. It’s about religions. 
They’re my hobby. Not religion; religions. 
There’s a difference, you see. I’ve tried to write 
a book that . . . well, how shall I explain 
it? . . . pulls them all together. Brings out their 
similarities. Fuses them, so to speak. It’s tre¬ 
mendously interesting work and means a lot of 
research, and I like that.” 

“How long have you been working on it?” 

“Oh . . . not very long. Let me see. ... I 
started it in 1910. Twelve years. Well, I sup¬ 
pose that is a fairly long time. But you see the 
war interrupted things.” 

“There were four years when I suppose you 
did no work on it at all.” 

“I managed to get in a lot of reading. I was 
studying Druidism when I was in the trenches— 
most absorbing study. That was when things 
were fairly peaceful, of course. And when they 
weren’t peaceful, one was . . . well, testing vari¬ 
ous beliefs, if you know what I mean. When 


MADAME CLAIRE 


103 

there was heavy shelling, for instance, and you 
had to sit tight.” 

She smiled at him. 

“Is it nearly done?” 

“Well, the bulk of it’s done, but I’m always 
adding things to it. You see I want it to be a 
sort of book of reference. If you want to find 
out where Mohammedanism resembles Buddhism 
you turn to where the two things are compared, 
belief by belief. But all this is very boring for 
you.” 

^‘It isn’t. I like it. Don’t you think it’s 
extraordinary, with all the guidance that it has, 
that mankind goes so frightfully astray?” 

“I suppose it is. But I always think that we 
expect too much of our fellow man. He’s all 
right. Only give him time. He’s got such a lot 
to unlearn.” 

“You mean he has all his brutal beginnings to 
forget?” 

He nodded. 

“I imagine I see him evoluting all the way 
from brute to angel, or something like it. He’s 
about at Half Way House now, I think. Wars, 
of course, give him a bit of a setback.” 

“I suppose they do.” 

“Oh, rather! I’m sure they do. Not neces- 


MADAME CLAIRE 


104 

sarily for every individual, you understand, but 
for the mass. I hate guns and noise and war¬ 
fare like the majority of my kind. I always have 
and I always shall. But at the same time, when 
there’s a fight on I’ve got to be there, and if 
there’s going to be a top dog, I want my fellows 
to be it. Half Way House, you see!” 

“And you think we’ll get beyond it?” 

“I don’t doubt it for a moment. Do you?” 

“I don’t know. I always think that mankind 
looks its best under the microscope, so to speak, 
and that it’s rather horrible when you see it in 
the mass.” 

“Like mold?” he suggested. “Ferns and flow¬ 
ers and lovely shapes when you magnify it, but 
very nasty indeed when you look at it on a damp 
wall.” 

“Yes. Just like that.” 

Her eyes smiled back at his eyes. It was at 
this moment that something greater than interest 
awoke in her. She knew it was there; she was 
aware of the very instant of its coming, and she 
meant, later, to examine it at her leisure. 

Noel and Major Stroud were engaged in 
studying a map of the Somme, and were oblivious 
to them. 

“You really must meet my grandmother, Lady 


MADAME CLAIRE 


105 

Gregory—or Madame Claire, as Noel and I call 
her. She’s the most wonderful person. When 
you’re better you must come and have tea with 
us at her hotel.” 

“I should like that very much,” he said. “I 
get on quite well with old ladies. I find young 
ones rather alarming nowadays, but perhaps it’s 
because I don’t see much of them.” 

Judy laughed at this. 

“Do I alarm you?” she challenged him. 

“No,” he admitted. “It’s very odd, but you 
don’t.” 

“What a blessing! Shy people—and I am one 
—usually have the most devastating effect on 
other shy people. But you’ll love Madame 
Claire. She looks on the world from a kind of 
Olympus.” 

“Yet most of us dread growing old,” he re¬ 
marked. 

“Yes. Isn’t it ridiculous? But I don’t. There 
are times when I envy her her age, and her . . . 
imperviousness. What a word!” 

“It’s temperamental, that sort of thing. It’s 
the people who are always seeking gayety that 
dread old age most. Being Scotch I like grayness, 
and austere hills, and quiet and mystery* All 
old things.” 




MADAME CLAIRE 


106 

Chip was surprised at the ease with which he 
could talk about himself. He felt half apologetic 
and looked at Judy as if to say, “Forgive me, 
but it must be some spell that you have cast upon 
me. ...” A look passed between them then 
that was to both of them an unforgettable thing. 

Their words had meant nothing, but they were 
mutually aware of a bond—a thing as fine as 
gossamer, and as strong as London Bridge. Judy 
was conscious of a queer little electric thrill that 
she felt to the very tips of her fingers. Their 
look had so plainly said: 

“You and I. . . . We are going to be some¬ 
thing to each other. What will that some¬ 
thing be?” 

To cover the nakedness of that question that 
each was aware of in the mind of the other, Judy 
turned away her head. 

“Noel,” she said, raising her voice, “Major 
Crosby and Major Stroud must come to tea at 
Madame Claire’s one day. Can’t we decide on 
an afternoon now?” 

“Being one of the unemployed,” Noel answered 
cheerfully, “all afternoons are alike to me. When 
will they let you up again, Major Crosby?” 

“Oh,” he said, “in three or four days I expect 
to be carrying on as usual.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


107 

They decided on the following Thursday, pro¬ 
vided Madame Claire had no other engagement, 
and soon Noel and Judy, for fear of tiring their 
victim, got up to go. 

“But you’ll come and see me again, won’t 
you?” asked Chip, then added, “but dash it all, I 
forgot! I’ll be up soon.” 

They laughed, and his regret that they might 
not come again was so real that Judy said as they 
shook hands: 

“Don’t forget; Madame Claire’s on Thursday, 
at four.” 

Major Stroud went out with them, leaving 
Chip looking after them rather wistfully. 

Talking to her had been strangely easy as he 
lay there. It might never be the same again. 
He had looked at her to his heart’s content, a 
thing he wouldn’t have dared to do had they been 
talking in the ordinary way. His recollections of 
the accident were very confused. He had been 
conscious of some one at intervals—a sort of 
delightful presence. Major Stroud had filled in 
the rest for him—badly enough. The Major did 
not excel in word pictures. 

Was she pretty . . . beautiful? He searched 
for the right word. She was lovely, that was 
it . . . lovely. She had taken off her gloves and 


io8 


MADAME CLAIRE 


her long ringless hands had lain in her lap as 
she talked. She was tall, but not too tall. He 
liked a woman to have height. He liked the pale¬ 
ness of her oval face, and the wide mouth with 
its satisfactory curves. Her dark brown eyes 
had a sparkle far at the back of them, like . . . 
like the reflection of a single star in a deep 
pool. . . . 

He had been damned dull, as he always was. 

“If she were only sitting there again,” he 
thought, “I would say everything differently. I 
would say things that she might remember after¬ 
wards. I’m not such a dull fellow as all that.” 

Was he not? At least no woman would ever 
find out that he was not. He thought of his pov¬ 
erty and his book, that, in all probability, he 
alone believed in. He realized that his head had 
begun to ache again, and he closed his eyes. 

Major Stroud went with Noel and Judy as far 
as the street door. 

“He’ll be all right,” he assured them, indi¬ 
cating Chip upstairs. “Nothing to worry about 
now. Rest’s doin’ him good. Awfully good of 
you to come, Miss Pendleton, cheer him up. Ter¬ 
rible fellow for bein’ alone, Chip is. Neglects 
his friends.” 

“Hasn’t he any relations?” Noel asked. 





MADAME CLAIRE 


109 


Major Stroud shook his head. 

“Orphan . . . only child, too. He doesn’t see 
enough people. Not like me; I like to keep 
goin’ . . . gaddin’ about.” 

Judy was amused at this. Solid, heavy Major 
Stroud, picturing himself as a sort of social 
butterfly! 

“But you two see a good deal of each other, 
don’t you?” Judy wanted to feel sure that Chip 
was not altogether alone. 

“Oh, Lord, yes! Good old Chip! Been 
through two campaigns together.” Then as Judy 
held out her hand, “ ’By, Miss Pendleton. I’ll 
let you know how he gets on. Ought to be out 
to-morrow.” 

They walked briskly down Church Street, Judy 
with an arm through Noel’s, and her chin buried 
in her furs. 

“Well?” said Noel. 

“Well?” she echoed. 

“I said it first,” remarked her brother. 

“Translated, I take it to mean, how do I like 
Chip? Is that it?” 

“Couldn’t have put it better.” 

“I like him immensely,” said Judy obligingly. 
“Now it’s your turn.” 



no MADAME CLAIRE 

“Same here.” Then after a pause, “Feeling 
less spinsterish?” 

“I don’t feel in the least spinsterish, thank 
you.” 

“Well,” he said, “I never saw you looking less 
so. Chip, poor devil, lay there and gazed with 
his soul in his eyes.” 

“Really, Noel!” 

“Fact. But you’ll have to change your meth¬ 
ods. You’ll have to cut that ‘he’ll have to come 
all the way to me’ business. Because he won’t; 
he’s too shy.” 

Judy would have been in a cold fury had any 
one else dared to speak so to her, but she took 
it from Noel with perfect good humor. 

“I gather you’d like me to see more of him.” 

“Well, why not? If ever a man needed some 
woman to take an interest in him, that man is 
Chip.” 

“He may need it, but from the little I’ve seen 
of him I don’t think he wants it.” 

“Of course he wants it. He’s human. I 
wouldn’t mind having him in the family.” 

Judy had to laugh. 

“Don’t you think it’s rather soon to make up 
your mind? After all, you hardly know him.” 



MADAME CLAIRE m 

“That’s nothing. I liked him the first minute 
I saw him.” 

“You have the impulsiveness of extreme 
youth.” 

“That’s so trite,” he remarked, “to throw my 
youth at me. You only say that when you can’t 
think of anything else to say. You must cultivate 
originality of thought.” 

“I do,” she retorted, “but it’s good manners 
to adjust one’s conversation to suit one’s hearers. 
Now let’s continue about Chip.” 

“He has no money,” he went on, quite unruf¬ 
fled, “and that’s a pity, because you won’t get 
much from the family. Gordon will get it all. 
But you’d make a better poor man’s wife than 
most girls. What about the simple life for a 
change?” 

“You go too fast, my friend. I’ve nothing 
against the simple life—though why they call it 
that I can’t think; there’s nothing less simple 
than trying to live on nothing a year. But what I 
wish to point out to you is that Major Crosby, to 
begin with, is not a marrying man.” 

“Oh, Lord!” groaned Noel, “what a cliche! 
How can a man be a marrying man until he mar- 

_ ')M 

ries r 

“To put it into words of one syllable, Major 



112 


MADAME CLAIRE 


Crosby is not the sort of man who contemplates 
marriage. He is wedded to his bachelorhood and 
his book.” 

“That’s tosh.” 

“But,” she went on, “I very much hope he will 
let us be his friends.” 

“Oh, he’ll let us right enough; if that’s what 
you want. By the way, we mustn’t let the Ben¬ 
netts know about the accident.” 

“Didn’t Mills tell them?” 

“Not he. I fixed it up with old Mills. Mrs. 
Bennett is a nice old thing, but she’d fuss, and 
Chip would hate that. I’m glad we let him think 
it was our car. We can explain to him some day. 
You see, it really was his fault. He didn’t look 
where he was going—didn’t even stop to listen, 
Mills says. But I don’t want him to think we 
think that.” 

“I’ll leave it to you, Noel. It’s getting too 
complicated for me.” Then she remembered 
something. 

“Did you know Eric had gone to Paris to 
fetch Aunt Connie home?” 

He whistled. 

“No. Nobody told me.” 

“Claire only told me this morning. Eric has 
wired for rooms for her in some small hotel, in 


MADAME CLAIRE 


ii 3 

Half Moon Street, I think. They’ll be back to¬ 
morrow. Won’t it be queer to have an aunt 
we’ve never seen since we were children?” 

He agreed that it would. 

“I think I shall rather like having a dissipated 
aunt,” he remarked. “It’s out of the common.” 

“I expect people have exaggerated things,” 
Judy said. “And besides, she’s getting on, you 
know. She’s only a year or two younger than 
mother.” 

“Her sort never change,” said the sage. “What 
about that rotten little Count?” 

“I don’t know what Eric means to do about 
him.” 

“Well, I know two people at least who will 
raise a row about her coming home. Mother and 
Louise.” 

“Nobody’s told them yet,” said Judy. 

He whistled again. 

“I see trouble ahead.” 

As they reached the house in Eaton Square 
the front door opened, and the figure of an 
immaculately dressed young man was sharply 
silhouetted against the yellow light. 

“Hello, you two!” said he. 

Gordon was extremely good-looking in his fair 
and rather wooden way. His beautiful evening 


MADAME CLAIRE 


114 

clothes looked resplendent, and the coat he car¬ 
ried over one arm was there as a concession to his 
mother, for he was never cold. 

“Hello, Gordon!” echoed the other two. 

“WhereVe you been?” demanded the elder 
brother. 

“Been to see a sick friend,” said Noel. 

Gordon looked at his sister. 

“Are you coming to Lady Ottway’s dance to¬ 
night? You were asked.” 

“I know. But I’m not coming. I can’t stand 
her dances. I may be slow, but they’re slower 
still.” 

“Don’t say you can’t stand her,” advised Gor¬ 
don, bending his handsome head to light a ciga¬ 
rette. 

“Why not? If I feel like it?” 

He threw away the match and puffed experi¬ 
mentally on the cigarette. Then, satisfied of a 
light, he said casually: 

“Because she’s going to be my mother-in-law. 
That’s why.” 

“Gordon!” they exclaimed together. 

“Fact. All arranged yesterday. Helen and 
I hope to be married early in June. So con¬ 
gratulate me.” 

“Gordon!” cried Judy again, “what a queer 


MADAME CLAIRE 


ii5 

boy you are! I hadn’t an inkling it had hap¬ 
pened.” She raised her face to kiss him, but he 
drew back. 

“Not on the front steps. Keep that for later.” 

“That’s so like you,” she protested. “No one 
can see us. Anyway, Gordon, consider yourself 
kissed, and I do congratulate you, my dear, and 
I’m happy if you are. Does mother know?” 

“Oh, yes. She’s delighted, of course.” 

Noel put his hand on Gordon’s shoulder. 

“I’m awfully glad, Gordon old man.” 

“Thanks.” He went down the steps and hailed 
a taxi that was crawling toward them. “I’d have 
told you before,” he said over his shoulder, “only 
we don’t keep the same hours. Never sure of 
seeing you. Well, so long!” 

The taxi door shut with a bang that echoed 
loudly in the quiet square, and he was off. 

“Isn’t that Gordon all over?” asked Noel. 

As Judy entered the hall she gave a little laugh 
that was almost a sob, and said: 

“Thank God for you, Noel!” 


CHAPTER X 


Madame Claire was at her desk, writing. She 
was writing to Stephen, and when she did that 
she gave her whole attention to it. 

“I am so sorry you are feeling less well . How 
is the phlebitis? No one ought to suffer from 
anything with such a pretty name. Did you ever 
stop to think that the names of diseases and the 
names of flowers are very similar f For instance, 
I might say, ( Do come and see my garden. It 
is at its best now, and the double pneumonias are 
really wonderful. I suppose the mild winter had 
something to do with that. Fm very proud of my 
trailing phlebitis, too, and the laryngitises and 
deep purple quinsies that I put in last year are a 
joy to behold. The bed of asthmas and malarias 
that you used to admire is finer than ever this 
summer, and the dear little dropsies are all in 
bloom down by the lake, and make such a pretty 
showing with the blue of the anthrax border 
behind themF 

i( Enough of nonsense. There is a great deal 

116 


MADAME CLAIRE 117 

to tell you. I wrote you that Eric was on his way 
to Paris to fetch Connie. He found her, where 
I thought he would, and they returned to London 
together. He took rooms for her in a quiet little 
hotel, which I fear was a mistake, for Connie 
loathes quiet little hotels, and only goes to them 
when she must. However, we shall see. She 
came to see me the other day—poor Connie! 
She is, to use her own words, a wreck of a woman, 
hut she trails the ghost of her beauty about with 
her, and Eric tells me people still turn to stare 
after her in the streets. She tried to talk to me 
as if we had parted only yesterday, and was as 
unemotional as one could wish, for which I was 
thankful, for emotions are only permissible when 
they are genuine, and not always then. 

“I suppose I am a very odd old woman, 
Stephen, but I only felt for her what I would 
have felt for any other woman in her position. 
I had to keep reminding myself that this once 
beautiful, made-up woman was my daughter. I 
have never known that feverish mother-love that 
so many women experience. My children inter¬ 
ested, amused and disappointed me—when I was 
stupid enough to be disappointed. I know better 
now. I would die for any of my children, but l 
cannot sentimentalize over them. 


118 MADAME CLAIRE 

“How I digress! Connie is going to give Lon¬ 
don a try, and I hope to Heaven she will find 
something to interest her. She has no friends, 
so she will have to fall hack, I suppose, on shops 
and theaters, and of course clothes, which she still 
loves. But she is not a woman to ( take up } things. 
I wish she were. 

“But you will he most interested in Judy. I 
wrote you about the near-accident, and the man 
who was knocked down in the fog. He appears 
to have captivated both Judy and Noel, and they 
are bringing him here to tea this afternoon. I 
am most anxious to meet him, for something tells 
me that Judy is more interested in him than she 
has ever been in any man. But more of that in 
my next letter. 

“Louise returns of her own free will—which 
must annoy her — to-morrow. I think she de- 
ferred her homecoming in the hope that Eric 
would send for her, but instead of that he begged 
her to stay as long as she wished. She has never 
met Connie, and of course they will dislike each 
other. At present neither she nor Millie know 
of Connie’s return. I thought it better to let her 
take root a little first, for I think any unpleasant¬ 
ness during the first week or two would easily 
dislodge her. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


119 

“I do hope to see you here, Stephen. Do you 
plan and hope for it too? 

“I will write again very soon . 

“Claire” 

She always sent Dawson out to post her letters 
to Stephen the moment they were written. She 
knew he had not her vitality nor her interests. 
There was little to hold him to life except her 
letters, and the hope he had of seeing her and 
those about her again. 


CHAPTER XI 


Louise returned to London in a strange state of 
mind. In the first place, her family, who liked 
Eric, had not been disposed to listen sympatheti¬ 
cally to her rather vague complaints. She had 
found her sister, an enthusiastic gardener, pre¬ 
occupied and full of plans for altering the gar¬ 
dens of Mistley; her mother too engrossed with 
Theosophy to listen to earthly troubles, and her 
father too much upset over the budget. So she 
had been left to herself more than she had liked. 
She had made up her mind to stay until Eric ex¬ 
pressed a desire for her return, but as he did no 
such thing, and she felt she couldn’t stand another 
hour of boredom, she returned to town. 

And there was something else. The day be¬ 
fore she left, a humble cousin of her mother’s 
came to tea. She had been to Paris for the first 
time in her life, and was not to be denied the 
greater joy of relating her impressions. The rest 
of the family, murmuring appropriate excuses, 
drifted away after tea, and Louise was left alone 


120 


MADAME CLAIRE 121 

with the caller. It was then that Louise received 
a shock. 

She heard that her husband had been seen in 
Paris. It came out quite naturally during the 
conversation. It also appeared that he had been 
seen at some private hotel with a lady. “I dare 
say—a relation?” The cousin’s voice had an in¬ 
quiring note. “I dare say you’ll know who it was 
if I describe her. A tall lady, my friend said, not 
very young. Fair.” And Louise said, with her 
brain whirling, “Oh, yes, a cousin.” The visitor 
nodded. “So odd, wasn’t it, my friend having 
seen your husband? One never expects to see 
any one one knows in Paris. It’s not like dear 
London.” 

Louise was so amazed that she forgot to feel 
angry and outraged. She thought of it most of 
the night, and in the train next morning, and she 
thought of it—and it seemed stranger than ever 
then—when she was once more in her own home, 
among the familiar things she had lived with for 
eight years. 

Eric was at the House. She couldn’t remember 
whether it was Divorce Reform or the Plumage 
Bill. Anyway, he wasn’t expected back till late. 
She longed for some one to talk to. She had no 
intimate woman friend with whom she could dis- 




122 MADAME CLAIRE 

cuss her husband; in fact, she could think of no 
better ear in which to pour her troubled amaze¬ 
ment than that of her husband’s mother. 

Lady Gregory was in, Dawson said over the 
telephone, and was not expecting visitors. She 
would be delighted to see Mrs. Eric. 

If Louise had been accustomed to self-examina¬ 
tion, she would have realized that she was less 
unhappy than she had been for some years. She 
was indeed conscious of an odd satisfaction. Eric, 
then, was less perfect than his friends and family 
believed. There was a chink in that shining ar¬ 
mor, his light had suddenly become dimmed. 
That woman in Paris—she was not young—it had 
evidently been going on for years. Or was it the 
renewal of some old affair? Her informant had 
managed to convey to her that her husband’s— 
“cousin did you say?”—had not looked—veil—- 
quite of their world. She was thankful for that. 
When Eric admired Lady Norah Thorpe-Taylor, 
or Mrs. Dennison, or that hideous, clever Ma¬ 
dame Fonteyn, she resented it bitterly, for she 
knew they had what she had not—charm. So 
she scoffed at charm, and prided herself on having 
none, nor wishing to have. 

But here was something different; here was a 
blemish in the fabric, a rotten spot brought for 



MADAME CLAIRE 123 

the first time to light. It put her on a new foot¬ 
ing with him, a slightly elevated footing. Let 
him point, if he could, to anything unworthy in 
her life. She had always believed him to be fas¬ 
tidious. Well, he was not. But she was—per¬ 
haps she was too fastidious; but then she had the 
defects of her qualities. Let others touch pitch 
and be soiled. She could almost pity Eric for 
lacking what she had. After all, he was merely 
common clay, and she had been expected to pros¬ 
trate herself before an idol. Ridiculous! She 
would try to forgive him. Perhaps he had found 
her difficult to live up to. 

She grew greatly in her own eyes. She no 
longer felt herself dwarfed by him. He must 
understand that. Then she would forgive and 
forget—except at such times as it might suit her 
to remember. 

vlf ilf vlf 

'r 'r ^ 'T* 'T' 

“My dear, how much better you look!” cried 
Madame Claire, as Louise came into the room. 
“You’re a different creature. Come and tell me 
all about it.” 

As Dawson took her hat and coat, Louise made 
a mental note that it was time she had new ones. 
Later on, she might perhaps run over to Paris 
for a few days, and buy clothes there. Why not? 


124 


MADAME CLAIRE 


‘‘Do I really look better? I feel it. It’s been 
a delightful change, and of course one’s family 
do appreciate one. It’s like renewing one’s girl¬ 
hood.” 

“What an affected speech!” thought Madame 
Claire. “Louise has something on her mind.” 
She then said aloud: 

“It amuses me to hear you talk about renew¬ 
ing your girlhood. How old are you? I’ve a 
dreadful memory for these things. Thirty-five? 
Ridiculously young. I always feel you don’t make 
the most of your youth and good looks.” 

Louise gave a few touches to her hair before 
a mirror, and took a chair on the other side of 
the fireplace. There was something very restful 
about this room of Madame Claire’s. And her 
mother-in-law was a woman without prejudices, 
even where her own children were concerned. She 
felt she had done the right thing in coming to her. 

“Would you be surprised to hear that I am 
going to turn over a new leaf? I feel I’ve been 
very much to blame. I’ve allowed myself to play 
third fiddle long enough.” 

“Good!” said Madame Claire. “And what 
else?” 

“And,” went on the younger woman, with a 



MADAME CLAIRE 


125 

hint of defiance in her voice, “I’m not going to 
stand in awe of Eric any longer.” 

“In awe—of Eric?” Madame Claire laughed. 
“My dear Louise, that you’ve certainly never 
done.” 

“Well, it’s what I was always expected to do. 
I’ve thought a good deal about what you said 
the last time I was here. You were partly right. 
I suppose I have sulked. Well, I’m not going to 
sulk any more. Eric isn’t a demi-god. I know 
now there’s no earthly reason why I should look 
up to him, and admire him. He’s just like any 
other man.” 

“But I could have told you that any time these 
last eight years!” cried Madame Claire, more 
puzzled than amused. “And besides, you your¬ 
self seem to have been well acquainted with his 
failings. I have sometimes thought you saw 
nothing else.” 

“That’s because I was annoyed by his perfec¬ 
tions.” 

“Perfections! My dear, I could swear Eric 
has never been a prig!” 

“Well, he never seemed to make mistakes like 
other people. And he always seemed to expect 
things of me that I wasn’t capable of. It got on 
my nerves.” 


126 


MADAME CLAIRE 


“Naturally.” 

“He always made me feel I was disappointing 
him. And that isn’t very pleasant. But now,” 
said Louise, coming to the crux of the matter, 
“he has disappointed me. So we are quits at 
last.” 

“Ah,” said Madame Claire, still in the dark. 
“That must be a relief.” 

“Oddly enough, it is a relief. Horrible as the 
whole thing is, I—I could almost be glad of it.” 

“I was wrong,” thought Madame Claire, re¬ 
membering a conversation she had had with Judy. 
“Eric is interested in some other woman, at last.” 

“And what is this horrible thing?” she asked. 

“You may as well hear it,” said Louise reck¬ 
lessly. “If I can bear it, I should think you 
could too. While I was away, Eric wired me he 
was going out of town for a few days. He didn’t 
say where. I know now. He was seen at a small 
hotel in Paris with a—a questionable-looking 
woman. So our idol has feet of clay.” 

There was both bitterness and triumph in her 
voice. Madame Claire gripped the arms of her 
chair and tried not to laugh. What should she 
do? Good had been known to come out of evil. 
Should she and Eric let Louise think—what she 
thought? Her crying need was evidently to 


MADAME CLAIRE 127 

find Eric in the wrong. Should they let her? 

“I won’t say it wasn’t a shock to me,” Louise 
went on. “It was. I heard it while I was at 
Mistley. I know that it is true.” 

Madame Claire was thinking: 

“She is bound to know the facts sooner or 
later, and then she’ll feel she has been made a 
fool of—a thing only saints can forgive. And 
yet, it’s an opportunity of a sort. But what a 
paltry business!” 

“Suppose this were really true, Louise,” she 
said. “At the moment I am neither denying the 
possibility of it, nor affirming it. But suppose 
it were true. How would it affect your feeling 
for Eric?” 

“As a good woman—and I hope I am that— 
it revolts me. But . . . perhaps I’ve been hard 
. , . perhaps he’s found a lack in me. ... I 
dare say he has. . . . Oh!” she cried suddenly 
with real emotion, “I want to forgive him! I 
would forgive him.” 

Madame Claire felt she was hearing something 
she had no right to hear. She must leave this 
to Eric. Stupid mistake as it was, it might be 
the means of clearing the air. She would have 
nothing to do with it. 

“My dear,” she said, “I am going to forget 


128 


MADAME CLAIRE 




you have told me this. Later you’ll understand 
why. I think the whole thing can be explained, 
but for your explanation I prefer you should go 
to Eric. It concerns him the most.” 

She would hear no more of it. There was 
something indecent in Louise’s willingness to for¬ 
give. While they talked of other things her in¬ 
dignation grew. Eric’s wife wanted to believe the 
worst of him. By the time her visitor was ready 
to go, she found it difficult to be polite. 

“I am delighted to see you looking so much 
better, and so much more cheerful,” she told her, 
as she said good-by. “And should there prove 
to be nothing in this story, don’t be disheartened. 
You mustn’t let one disappointment discourage 
you.” 

Louise, wondering what she meant, kissed her 
mechanically. 

“Good-by. I’ll come and see you again in a 
few days if I may.” 

“Do. I shall expect really good news from 
you then.” 

When the door had closed on her, Madame 
Claire sat looking into the fire with a flush on her 
cheeks. Presently she took from a bowl on the 
table beside her a few violets, and after wiping 
their stems, tucked them into her dress. 



MADAME CLAIRE 


129 

“You deserve a bouquet,” she said to herself, 
“for not having been ruder. I expect they’re 
writing in their book up aloft, ‘January 30, Ma¬ 
dame Claire rather less pleasant to-day to her 
irritating daughter-in-law.’ Well, let them.” 

>1/ vt# xU xU 

'1* 'f' 'I' ^ 

Louise went home and dressed for dinner feel¬ 
ing like a warrior on the eve of battle. There 
had been many coldnesses in that house, but, as 
far back as she could remember, not a single 
contretemps. Dinner was at half-past eight, and 
there was a possibility that Eric would be late. 
They usually dined at eight, but the Plumage Bill 
—or was it the Divorce Reform Bill?—would 
keep him. She did her hair in a way that he had 
once admired, and put on a blue tea-gown that he 
had called charming. In fact, she took far greater 
pains over her role as injured wife than she had 
ever taken before. And saw no humor in it either. 

Eric thought he had never seen her look so well. 
Take away her coldness and her pettiness, he said 
to himself, and she would be lovely. Perhaps if 
she had married some one else she would have 
been neither cold nor petty. He often felt very 
sorry for her, for though he had made the mis¬ 
take, she, no doubt, suffered the most. They 
talked commonplaces during dinner, but once they 


MADAME CLAIRE 


130 

were alone in the library, Louise confronted him 
with heightened color and a voice she could barely 
control. 

It was a pitiful little comedy. Her triumph 
was so short lived, and the bubble of her advan¬ 
tage over him so soon pricked. At the end of it 
she found refuge from her humiliation in tears. 
Eric had never seen her cry like that before, and 
it moved him. He felt like confessing to things 
he had never done, or abasing himself in some 
way. He understood her for the first time, and 
though there was something ignoble in it all, and 
he felt the prickings of anger, he nevertheless 
thought her very human, at least, in wanting to 
find some weakness to forgive him for. 

He put his arm about her, half laughing. 

“Look here, Louise, don’t be so cast down. 
There’s always the stage door—or I could forge 
a check to oblige, or elope with your maid. What 
would you like me to do?” 

She made no answer, but buried her wet face 
in a cushion. 

“Or why not just forgive me on general prin¬ 
ciples for being a stupid fellow, and not under¬ 
standing you? I expect I often hurt you when I 
am least aware of it. We humans are like that—» 
we understand each other’s sensibilities so little. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


13 1 

Why not forgive me for that? Forgive me for 
not having known how to make you happier?” 

“You are making fun of me,” she sobbed. 
“You are only sneering at me.” 

Something told him that she was softening, that 
soon she would be talking with him like a reason¬ 
able being. Was it possible that from to-night he 
might feel he had a friend for a wife instead of 
an enemy? He knew he must not let pride stand 
in the way of it—nor justice even. There was 
nothing to be gained and much to be lost by tell¬ 
ing her that during the whole of their married life 
she had persistently played the fool. 

“On my honor I am not,” he said. “Louise, 
listen to me. I am a blundering fellow. Some¬ 
how or other I have always failed to give you 
what you wanted. That being so, I ask your help. 
Help me to be what you wish me to be. We are 
young, and there is still time. I will do anything. 
I beg you to help me.” 

He made her raise her head, and looked her 
full in the face with all the intensity those blazing 
blue eyes of his were capable of. 

“Will you help me?” 

It was undoubtedly the great moment of 
Louise’s life. She knew it. Eric had made it pos¬ 
sible for her to be magnanimous. But the gods 


t 


MADAME CLAIRE 


132 

were not kind. What she was going to say to him 
they alone knew, for at that instant the maid came 
to the door, to say that Countess Chiozzi was on 
the telephone and would like to speak to Mr. 
Gregory. For Louise the interruption was mad¬ 
dening. Eric was about to send word that he 
would ring her up in the morning, and so return 
as quickly as possible to the business in hand, when 
Louise said in a stifled voice: 

“I want it clearly understood that that woman 
is not to come into this house.” 

It was hopeless, then. Eric turned to the maid. 

“I’ll speak to her,” he said, and left the room. 
They would have to separate. There was noth¬ 
ing else for it. 

Louise sat with bent head, smoothing out a 
handkerchief on her knee. She had not meant 
to say that. The words had come through sheer 
force of habit. She knew her moment was gone 
now, and she believed that it would never come 
again. If Eric had really loved her, he would 
have seen that she longed to be different, and that 
under her coldness and bitterness there was only 
unhappiness and longing! He ought to have 
seen! She folded the handkerchief and pressed 
it to her eyes again. She was more miserable than 


ever. 


CHAPTER XII 


Major Stroud had also been invited to tea at 
Madame Claire’s, but was to be out of town, and 
as Noel had to see a man about a job, the party 
had dwindled to three, and Chip found his way 
to the hotel alone. He was prompt to the minute 
and feeling extremely nervous. He had so looked 
forward to seeing Judy again that he felt sure 
everything—except Judy herself—would be dis¬ 
appointing. Madame Claire would find him unin¬ 
teresting, and Judy would be kind but bored. He 
would very likely upset his tea. He had been a 
fool to accept. He had far better have stayed 
away and allowed himself to return to the com¬ 
fortable oblivion from which the accident had dis¬ 
lodged him. Better be a kindly memory than a 
dull actuality. 

But there was something reassuring about the 
way the homely Dawson opened the door to him 
and took his hat and coat. She received him like 
an old friend and smiled as though she shared 
some secret with him. The sight of Judy and his 
hostess bending over plans for a Pise de Terre 

133 


,x 

t 


MADAME CLAIRE 


134 


cottage to be built for Judy on Madame Claire’s 
little place in Sussex, also gave him courage. He 
loved plans, and was soon making suggestions and 
alterations in a way that, Judy said, was as domi¬ 
neering as an architect’s. 

“It’s entirely furnished and decorated inside,” 
she said. “I’ve thought about it so much that I 
wouldn’t be surprised to find it had materialized. 
You must look next time you go down, Madame 
Claire. It might look rather odd without its out¬ 
sides of course.” 

It had long been a dream of Judy’s to have her 
own cottage—shared, needless to say, with Noel 
—and if they could only get it built cheaply 
enough, there was a chance that it might be ful¬ 
filled. At any rate, they enjoyed planning it, and 
if it served no other purpose it put Chip at his 
ease with them—a thing she had prayed for. 

Madame Claire guessed easily enough that he 
was on the way to falling in love with Judy, and 
that Judy herself was on the same road. She 
thought there was something very lovable about 
Chip, and felt sure that he was as gallant a soldier 
as he was a modest one. Major Stroud had more 
than hinted to Judy that his D.S.O. should have 
been a V.C. Madame Claire loved a good sol¬ 
dier, for she had a theory that to be a good soldier 


MADAME CLAIRE 


i 3 S > 

a man must be a great gentleman. And, like Judy, 
she felt the charm of the man of forty—the age 
that lies like a savory filling between what is cal¬ 
low in the young generation and outworn in the 
old. 

His poverty had kept him out of touch with 
things. She guessed that if he danced at all, it 
would be in the stiff, uncompromising manner of 
the late nineties. He should learn the new ways. 
He wasn’t nearly old enough to think of himself 
as on the shelf. 

Judy inquired about his injuries. Had the stiff¬ 
ness nearly gone? No, it was no good his saying 
that it had entirely gone, because she had noticed 
that he was limping slightly when he came in. 

“That’s old age,” he said. 

“Very well. Only don’t forget to limp the next 
time we meet. And what about your head?” 

“Oh, quite recovered, thanks! That is, it aches 
a bit, of course, if I do much writing, but the 
doctor says that’s bound to be so for a while. 
Really,” he said, turning to Madame Claire, “I 
feel I owe, my life to Miss Pendleton and her 
chauffeur. Any one else would have run gayly 
over me and gone on. I think it was such amaz¬ 
ingly good luck that it happened to be that par¬ 
ticular car.” 



MADAME CLAIRE 


136 

“I’m rather inclined to agree with you,” 
laughed Madame Claire. “Some day I’d like to 
hear something about your book. It sounds tre¬ 
mendously interesting. But what I’d like to know 
now is this. Are all your eggs in one basket? I 
mean, does this book occupy your whole time, or 
do you work on it when other occupations per¬ 
mit?” 

“I’m afraid that . . . well, that not only are 
all my eggs in one basket, but that there’s only 
one egg. You see,” he explained, “I chucked the 
army in order to give all my time to it. It meant 
as much to me as that. To my mind, no one’s 
ever written scientifically enough about religions.” 

“That may be, but I feel you need diversions. 
When people become so obsessed by one idea that 
they walk under omnibuses and into motor cars, 
it’s time for an antidote.” 

“That’s just what I did,” he admitted. 

“Very well then, I suggest diversions.” 

“But what sort? I play golf now and then, but 
it doesn’t take my mind off the book. Why, I 
remember perfectly solving a problem once—it 
had something to do, I think, with levitation— 
while I was trying to get my ball out of a bunker.” 

Madame Claire laughed heartily. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


137 

“You’re a most unusual man then. What else 
can we think of, Judy?” 

“There’s always dancing,” said Judy. 

“Dancing! Of course! He must learn to 
dance. You can’t dance and think about religions. 
I defy you to do it.” 

“But I couldn’t dance. I’m too old and stiff. 
Besides, no one would dance with me.” 

“Three excuses, and none of them any good.” 

“I’ll teach you,” Judy said. “I might even 
dance with you.” 

“Would you really? That’s awfully kind. But 
I ought to tell you that I really don’t think I’m 
teachable.” 

“You must let me judge of that. We might 
begin at Eaton Square one night, in a small way. 
Gordon and Noel and I often ask a few friends 
in for dancing, and there’s a little anteroom re¬ 
served for practicing. There will only be a few, 
and it won’t be at all alarming even for hermits.” 

Chip looked pleased and dubious at the same 
time. 

“There won’t be any flappers, will there? I’m 
terrified of flappers.” 

“Nothing more flapperish than myself,” 
laughed Judy. “Was I ever a flapper, Madame 
Claire?” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


138 

“Never. Millie kept you out of sight until you 
were able to fly. I didn’t altogether approve. 
After all, we must all try our wings some time. 
You see, I like the present day, Major Crosby. 
I like it far better than what people call my own 
day, though why this one isn’t just as much mine 
as it is anybody’s, I really don’t know.” 

“You’re very greedy,” Judy told her. “You 
had Disraeli and Gladstone and Jenny Lind, and 
now you want Lloyd George and Charlie Chaplin. 
All the same, I don’t wonder you like our age 
best. That one was so full of hypocrisy and senti¬ 
ment.” 

Madame Claire agreed with this. 

“We were always pretending things. Men were 
always gentlemen or monsters. Young girls were 
always innocent as flowers. We even tried to be¬ 
lieve that wars and poverty were picturesque and 
romantic.” 

“And you talked too much about love,” said 
Judy. “ That sort of golden, sticky, picture-book 
love that even we were taught to expect. And a 
gigantic hoax it is 1” 

“A hoax?” Chip looked at her to see if she 
were joking. 

“Of course it is. Oh, I believed in it too, once. 
It’s like Santa Claus. I never could see that the 


MADAME CLAIRE 


139 

pleasure of believing in him was worth the awful¬ 
ness of finding out that he’s only a myth.” 

Chip wondered if she were making fun of love, 
or whether she was merely holding the school¬ 
girl’s idea of it up to scorn. He didn’t know. 
He had never expected to find a love that would 
transform the world, and he had found it. What 
he had yet to discover was that women, after all, 
are the terrible realists. Men manage to pre¬ 
serve their illusions better. Few of them love 
with their eyes open, and women only really love 
when their eyes are open. For women are meant 
to see faults, being the mothers of children, and 
their critical faculties are more on the alert. 

Judy had looked for a miracle. She had been 
searching for a fairy castle, and now found her¬ 
self becoming interested in an imperfect modern 
dwelling. Chip had not asked for a miracle, and 
lo! it had come to pass. He listened to Judy 
making fun of romantic love—which she did with 
great satisfaction to herself until interrupted by 
tea—and refused to believe that she meant what 
she said. For romantic love does undoubtedly 
come to very simple people, and Chip was very 
simple. 

He didn’t trouble to disagree with her. He 
was happy to be hearing from her own lips that 


MADAME CLAIRE 


140 

she had never been in love. Not that it made any 
difference, beyond the pleasure that it gave him, 
for to love Judy was not the same thing where he 
was concerned as to make love to her. That was 
unthinkable. 

They left Madame Claire’s together at six, and 
Chip, happily reckless as well as recklessly happy, 
walked with Judy all the way to Eaton Square. 
It was settled that he was to dine there and begin 
his rejuvenation the following Wednesday night. 
For Judy told herself that she couldn’t keep Chip 
a secret from the family forever, and they might 
as well meet him and get done with it. 

“I hope you won’t be frightened of mother,” 
she said. “I don’t know why it is, but she does 
frighten people. I don’t think she wants to, 
really. She and father are very keen on what 
Noel calls the ‘kin game.’ You know the sort of 
thing I mean—who’s related to who and how.” 

“I see,” said Chip. 

“So perhaps you’d better tell me some of your 
family history. Then I could tell them, and you 
won’t be bothered. Because they’re sure to want 
to know.” 

She colored as she said it, and Chip guessed 
that there were mortifying experiences behind her 
warning. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


141 

“With all the pleasure in the world,” he said. 
“Only there isn’t much to tell.” 

He made short work of what there was. His 
father, Graham Crosby, an explorer well known 
to geographical societies, had lost his life from 
fever in a South American jungle at the age of 
thirty-seven. His mother, faced with the pros¬ 
pect of almost unendurable poverty, tried her 
hand at novel writing. “The sentimental kind 
that you would have hated,” he said with a smile. 
However, they had an enormous success, and en¬ 
abled her to send her only son to Sandhurst. She 
died at the close of the Boer War. They were 
not related to any Crosbys that he knew of, ex¬ 
cept some excessively dull ones who lived some¬ 
where near Aberdeen. 

“Very poor pickings for your mother, I’m 
afraid,” he said with a laugh. 

Chip left her at the door with his rather old- 
fashioned bow, and she watched him until he 
reached the corner. There he turned, as she had 
guessed he would, and looked back, and as the 
maid opened the door, she waved her hand to him 
gayly. He walked stiffly, thanks to the accident, 
and leaned a little on his stick. Dear old 
Chip! . . . 

So this was love! With her it took the form 


MADAME CLAIRE 


;i 42 


of a passionate tenderness. She wanted him to 
have success, and happiness. She wanted to help 
him to get them. 

For Chip, the impossible thing that had hap¬ 
pened was too dazzling, as yet, to be more than 
blinked at. It was as though an old dried stick 
had burst into blossom and leaf. As though water 
had been turned into wine. That Judy might be 
persuaded to care for him in return never entered 
his head. To love her was wonderful enough. 
Let a man of her own world, a man of wealth and 
standing, try to win her. Some day such a man 
would succeed, and he would have to bear that as 
he had borne lesser things. If his book received 
recognition, he might continue to enjoy this de¬ 
lightful friendship. If not, he must quietly drop 
out of Judy’s life. For he believed that a man 
had no right to accept a charming woman’s friend¬ 
ship unless he could lay appropriate and frequent 
sacrifices upon her altar. Which shows that the 
world had been rolling along under Chip’s very 
nose without his having observed the manner of 
its rolling. 

One pleasure he permitted himself that day. 
He went into a little flower shop in Church Street 
and bought two dozen pink roses. It was one of 







MADAME CLAIRE 


143 

his happiest moments; he had been so denied the 
joy of giving. On his card he wrote: 

“I hope you will forgive me if I am doing a 
presumptuous thing in sending you these few 
flowers. But if they give you a little pleasure, I 
shall he well content” 

He felt bold, because he had nothing to lose. 
It was early February, too, with the softness of 
coming spring in the air, and hope dies hard in 
the spring, even at forty. 


CHAPTER XIII 

Stephen’s letter in reply to Madame Claire’s last 
was brief. She guessed that he was still suffering, 
and was not up to writing at any length. 

“Bronchitis and phlebitis” he wrote, “are not 
as pretty as they sound, although your garden 
amused me very much . Miss McPherson would 
be happy in it, that’s certain. When I’m feeling 
better I see her casting longing glances at old 
Jock Wetherby, who’s got more ailments than the 
doctors can put names to. But when I’m at my 
worst she clucks over me like a proud hen. 

“Connie’s Count seems to suspect collusion. 
He tried to pump me about her yesterday. I was 
out in the sun for five minutes, and he appeared 
so promptly I think he’d been waiting for me. As 
soon as he began asking questions I had a cough¬ 
ing fit, so he went away. From what I hear—for 
I listen to gossip when it suits me to do so — Con¬ 
nie could get a divorce ten times over. I expect 
he misses her in a way. He found he could make 
her suffer—an occupation his sort delights in. 

144 


MADAME CLAIRE 


i45 

“Well, Claire, my dear, I cannot write more 
to-night. You are wonderful, and your letters are 
my great joy. They soothe me. I find myself 
growing less short-tempered, less out of love with 
my fellow man. 

“There is a little poem that comes to my mind 
now and speaks of you. 

“‘The world is young to-day: 

Forget the gods are old, 

Forget the years of gold 
When all the months were May. 

A little flower of Love 

Is ours, without a root, 

Without the end of fruit, 

Yet—take the scent thereof. 

There may be hope above, 

There may be rest beneath; 

We see them not, but Death 
Is palpable—and Love.’ 

“It is a charming thing, and applies to old 
friends who love one another and whose days are 
transient, as well as to young lovers, whose love 
is perhaps transient. 

“Write soon. Tell me more about Judy. 

“Stephen.” 


Madame Claire answered almost at once: 




MADAME CLAIRE 


146 

“Dear Stephen, 

“I have your little poem by heart. Thank 
you for it. The older I grow, the more I value 
the poets. They are the bravest people I know, 
for they sing in defiance of a world out of joint. 
Think of touching the high peaks of rapture with 
coal at its present price, in the midst of strikes, 
and a much advertised crime wave! It is difficult 
to see that the world has improved since the war, 
but at least one can see that it has changed, and 
I like to think that it CAN only change for the 
better. So I cling to that thought and read the 
poets, not being one of those who can help to 
make it better. I feel about the world as I might 
feel about an Inn where I have supped and been 
kindly served. I hope it may flourish and not fall 
into evil hands. Not that I expect to return. It 
was, after all, only a night y s stopping place. But 
I should like other travelers to find it as I found 
it, or somewhat better. 

“Judy came here to tea a day or two ago, and 
there came also the victim of the accident in the 
fog. He is, or soon will be, in love with her, and 
something of the sort is happening to Judy. If 
anything should come of it—and I feel that it 
may, things would not be easy for them. Millie 
would give the clothes off her back, and so would 


MADAME CLAIRE 


147 

John, for the eldest son, hut they expect their 
daughter to marry for a living. I would do what 
I could, hut that would he little. My income 
since the war has dwindled surprisingly, and I 
have some of Robert's poor relations to help. Of 
course y from Millie's point of view, the man is 
utterly unsuitable, hut he is a gallant fellow, and 
life has been none too kind to him. I fear, some¬ 
how, that he is one of life's inexplicable failures, 
but I like him none the less for that. 

(< Connie has conceived an extravagant admira¬ 
tion for Noel. I think I said that she was not a 
woman to take up things, but I was wrong, for 
she has * taken up' Noel. And really, it is amaz¬ 
ing the change he has already wrought in her. 
She takes his frankness and frequent scoldings in 
a way I never dreamed she would. He is kindness 
itself to her, takes her to theaters and concerts, 
and seems to find her an amusing companion. He 
thinks she has had a pretty bad time of it — 
though he admits it's her own fault—and is bent 
on cheering her up. She adores his brutal hon¬ 
esty and his entire lack of respect for age, posi¬ 
tion, or human frailties. The first time they 
lunched together, they met at the Ritz, and Con¬ 
nie, it appears, was ablaze with paint. Noel re¬ 
fused to set foot in the dining room until she had 


MADAME CLAIRE 


148 

washed her face, and in the end she meekly sat 
down with nothing more in the way of make-up 
than a dusting of powder on her nose. Of course 
he is a godsend to her. Millie is very angry with 
me } and Louise will have none of her. Judy gets 
on with her well enough, hut she doesn't amuse 
Judy as she does Noel. 

(< Did I tell you Louise heard Eric was in Paris 
with a ‘questionable looking woman'? She was 
nobly prepared to forgive him, but when she 
learned that it was only Connie, her humiliation 
knew no bounds. I fear she is colder to him than 
ever now. 

“JVell, well, they must all go through with it 
as we did. I thank Heaven every day that Time 
has given me the right to sit quietly on my hill¬ 
top. I can still hear the sounds of the conflict 
below, and the cries of the wounded, but though 
they are my nearest and dearest I am too con¬ 
scious of the transience of things, too aware of 
yesterdays and to-morrows—especially to-mor¬ 
rows—to concern myself greatly. I want them 
to be happy, but I know they won't be, and I am 
not God to confer or withhold. I can do nothing 
but laugh at or comfort them a little. Do you 
think me hard? No, you know that I am not. 
The happiest of them all is Noel, for he, like me, 


MADAME CLAIRE 


149 

is a looker-on. I don 1 t know how he has managed 
to exchange the arena for the spectators } gallery, 
but he has. I think it is because he wants nothing 
for himself. 

“As for Gordon, he is too ambitious to be 
happy. He is marrying partly to suit his mother, 
and partly to gratify his passion for being among 
the big-wigs, where of course, as Lord Ottway’s 
son-in-law, he will be. But he doesn f t know his 
Helen — yet. I think I do. Her chin is too long 
and her nose too high. 

“Oh, the joy of wanting nothing! The joy of 
being eighty and immune! But I, even I, have 
one wish. And that is to see you, my old friend, 
again. But it is a pleasant want, like a hunger 
that is soon to be satisfied. For I feel I cannot 
lose you. Here, or there—what does it matter? 
I imagine you wince at that, foolish old Stephen! 

“Write to me soon. I do hope you are better . 

“Yours, 

“Claire.” 



CHAPTER XIV 


It was February and it was sunny, and Noel had 
persuaded Connie to take a little gentle exercise 
in the Park. 

She was finding London bearable, thanks to her 
nephew, and although she had, she said, nothing 
to look forward to, she was content with the pres¬ 
ent as long as the present remained as it was now. 

They were discussing men in general, a topic 
that never lost its interest for Connie. 

“Can’t think why you’re so keen on foreign¬ 
ers,” Noel remarked; then said in his merciless 
way, “the only Englishman you ever had much to 
do with you ran away from.” 

Connie was quite soberly dressed in a dark blue 
coat and skirt, relieved by furs, hat, shoes and 
gloves of her favorite gray. She was no more 
made up than most of the other women who 
passed them. It was her forty-eighth birthday, 
and to celebrate it they were going to lunch at 
Claridge’s later. 

“Foreigners interest me so much more,” she 
replied. “They understand women.” 


150 


MADAME CLAIRE 


151 

“Too damn well,” agreed Noel. “Besides, the 
sort of men you mean only understand one sort 
of woman. They wouldn’t understand Judy, for 
instance.” 

Connie smiled deprecatingly and put her head 
on one side. 

“Well, as to that, I’m not sure I understand 
her myself. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed 
in Judy.” 

“You can’t appreciate her, Connie. That’s 
why.” 

“Perhaps.” No one ever took offense at Noel. 
“To my mind she isn’t feminine enough. She’s 
handsome, but she has no magnetism, no allure.” 

“Nice English girls don’t go in for allure,” 
Noel said. 

“Pooh!” She laughed rather scornfully. “Be¬ 
cause they don’t know how.” 

“Exactly,” agreed her nephew. “And a good 
thing too. Look where it landed you.” 

“Now you’re being rude and British, but I for¬ 
give you. And at any rate, I have lived.” 

It was Noel’s turn to laugh scornfully. 

“Lived! You surely don’t call that living? 
Junketing around Europe with a lot of bound¬ 
ers ! Why, Connie, you little innocent, you’d have 


MADAME CLAIRE 


152 

lived a whole lot more if you’d stuck to Hum¬ 
phries and brought up a family.” 

She threw him an appealing look. 

“You might remember that it’s my birthday,” 
she protested. 

“Jove, that’s so. And I’m hungry. Let’s start 
walking toward Claridge’s.” 

“Walk? It’s too far. We must have a taxi.” 

“No, we mustn’t. Great Scott, Connie, we’ve 
only walked half a mile or so. What’ll you do 
in the next war?” 

“Well, be nice to me then.” She gave in as 
she usually did. “You know I’m horribly wor¬ 
ried. I may have to go back to Chiozzi almost 
any day. If he finds out where I am-” 

“Nonsense. He can’t make you go. You 
ought to divorce the little beast. I don’t call that 
a marriage. And anyway, one more scandal 
won’t matter much.” 

“I’m afraid of him.” 

“Has he any money of his own, or are you 
supporting him?” 

“Oh, he has money of his own, but he’s gam¬ 
bled away most of it. He gambled away most of 
mine, tOG. I didn’t know how to stop it. Morton 
Freeman ought to have tied it up in some way, 



MADAME CLAIRE 


153 

but you see he died so suddenly . . . that awful 
Titanic . . . ” 

“What sort of a fellow was Freeman?” 

“Oh, very nice, and very fond of me. But you 
don’t like foreigners.” 

“I never said so. And besides, I don’t call 
Americans foreigners.” 

“He stayed on the ship,” Connie went on. “He 
made me go. It was so brave of him. I wasn’t 
really in love with him. I’ve never really loved 
anybody but Petrovitch. But I was sorry.” 

“Where is Petrovitch now?” 

“In America, I think, but I’m not sure. He 
never writes to me.” She sighed. 

“How are you getting on with Louise?” Noel 
asked, thinking it was time to change the sub¬ 
ject. “I’d love to see you two together!” 

“You never will,” Connie said with feeling. 
“Eric needn’t try to bring us together, either. 
I’ve seen her, and that’s enough. How I hate 
those thin-lipped, straw-colored women! How 
Eric could have married her when he might have 
married any one, I cannot imagine.” 

“People have these sudden fancies,” said 
Noel. 

“What about Gordon? Is it true he’s really 
engaged to Helen Dane? Not that I care much, 


154 MADAME CLAIRE 

as he’s never had the politeness to come and see 
me. 

“He’s engaged right enough. I suppose he’s 
happy. Gordon closes up like an oyster if you 
touch on anything personal. We’ve never dis¬ 
cussed anything in our lives. Mother’s fright¬ 
fully pleased about it.” 

“What’s the girl like?” 

“Oh, she’s all right, but she’s cut to pattern.” 

“Pretty?” 

“So so. Too bony, I think. But she suits Gor¬ 
don. Related to everybody, rich, correct, hasn’t 
got an original thought in her head. Thinks she’s 
literary because young Shawn Bridlington the poet 
goes and reads his verses in her mother’s drawing¬ 
room. Affects the Bloomsbury people. Opens 
bazaars and things. Jove! I’d rather marry a 
factory girl with a harelip.” 

Much of this was Greek to his aunt, who had 
the misfortune never to have heard of the Blooms¬ 
bury people. 

“And what about Judy and that man she nearly 
ran over?” 

“Why?” Noel asked innocently, not wishing to 
discuss Judy and her affairs with Connie. “What 
about them?” 

“Is there anything in it? I hope not, because 


MADAME CLAIRE 


155 

the thing’s ridiculous. Who is he? What is he?” 

Noel gave an amused chuckle. 

“Connie, you really are a joy. You to ask 
‘Who is he ? What is he ?’ Don’t you try to take 
a leaf out of mother’s book. It isn’t your role.” 

“Judy’s my niece, after all,” protested Connie. 
“Isn’t it natural that I should be interested?” 

“Natural enough,” said Noel. “I hope you 
are. Ask me if he’s a good fellow, and if I think 
he could make her happy, and I’ll be delighted 
to answer you. But ‘who is he?’ . . . that sort 
of tosh. ... I should think you’d earned the 
right to be human, if anybody had.” 

“Very well,” answered his chastened aunt. “Is 
he good enough?” 

“I think he’s as near being good enough as 
any fellow I’ve met. If he had any money at all, 
I should call it a match. But he hasn’t, and I 
don’t know how Judy would like being downright 
poor.” 

“All the same,” Connie insisted, “I can’t help 
wishing that my only niece would make a good 
match.” 

Noel raised his eyes heavenward, despairingly. 

“For a woman who deemed the world well lost 
for love. . . .” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


156 

“I know,” interrupted Connie. “But you see 
Judy hasn’t my temperament.” 

“I’ll refrain from saying ‘Thank God!’ because 
it’s your birthday,” returned Noel. “Here we 
are, and I bet I do justice to the lunch.” 

They both did, and Connie had occasion to con¬ 
gratulate the head waiter on a very perfect Petite 
Marmite. She was always at her best in restau¬ 
rants. She loved the crowds and the chatter and 
the music, and the feeling that she was being 
looked at, and was still worth looking at. There 
was even a secret hope in her heart that people 
would take Noel for her son. She liked to imag¬ 
ine them saying, “There’s a son who enjoys going 
about with his mother.” And Noel, who really 
liked Connie and pitied her, had hopes of knock¬ 
ing some sense into her foolish head in time. It 
touched him, too, that she depended on him so. 

Two men came in and sat at a table at Connie’s 
left, and somewhat behind her. One was fat and 
old, with a round, coarse face. The other was 
at least impressive, and Noel found himself watch¬ 
ing him. He had a dome-shaped head, rather flat 
at the back, and his hair, which began high up at 
the very summit of his temples was long and care¬ 
fully brushed so as to fall slightly over the collar 
behind. A pair of level, frowning eyes looked 


MADAME CLAIRE 


15 7 

out scornfully from under projecting brows, and 
the wide, thin lips protruded in a fierce pout. 
Presently, when something annoyed him, he spoke 
with great brusqueness to the waiter, scarcely 
moving his lips as he did so. 

Connie heard his voice and turned, and their 
eyes met. Noel heard her draw in her breath 
sharply, and for a moment she sat staring, motion¬ 
less. There was not the slightest change in the 
man’s expression, as he stared back at Connie. 
There was an empty seat at his table, and sud¬ 
denly he raised a large hand with spade-shaped 
fingers, and beckoned. 

Connie started up from her chair like an autom¬ 
aton, and would have gone to him, but Noel’s 
muscular hand closed on her wrist and fastened 
it to the table. 

“Keep your seat!” he commanded. “Are you 
a dog to obey that man’s whistle? If he wants to 
talk to you, let him come here.” 

Then as if ashamed of taking part in such an 
intense little drama, he dropped her hand and 
said lightly: 

“Who’s your friend, Connie? I don’t care for 
his manners.” 

Connie strove to reach the normal again. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


§ 


158 


“It’s Petrovitch,” she said, scarcely above a 
whisper. 

“Thought so. Do you realize he beckoned to 
you as though you were his slave? I’d like to 
wring his beastly neck.” 

“Noel! It’s Petrovitch! What does he care 
about our silly little conventions? He wants me. 
I must talk to him.” 

“Then he can damn well come here. And for 
Heaven’s sake don’t make a scene, Connie. Eat 
your lunch.” 

“I can’t eat. I haven’t seen him for fifteen 
years. Oh, Noel, I’ve never loved any one as I’ve 
loved him.” 

“Well, I don’t see that it’s anything to have 
hysterics about. What of it? He’ll come and 
talk to you, I expect, when he’s finished that enor¬ 
mous lunch he’s ordered. That is, if you’re fool¬ 
ish enough to wait.” 

“I must. Oh, Noel, have pity on me 1 ” 

Her lips trembled. 

“Cheer up!” he said. “I’ll sit here all day, if 
you’ll order another Entre Cote. Have you ever 
noticed what queerly shaped heads some of these 
fellows have? If I were a woman, I’d study 
phrenology a bit. That’s where you have the best 
of us. You women may—and I expect often do—1 


* 


MADAME CLAIRE 


159 

possess heads a congenital idiot would be proud 
of, but we never find it out. Don’t even show 
your ears, now. It isn’t fair. But your friend 
over there—I could tell you a whole lot about him 
just by looking at the back of his head.” 

“Oh, he’s a devil if you like,” said the unhappy 
Connie, “but I love him. And he loved me, once. 
I’d die for him.” 

“Neurotic,” Noel told her. 

“Call it what you like. I’d rather spend five 
minutes with him than a lifetime with any one 
else.” 

“I’d like to spend five minutes with him my¬ 
self,” said Noel. “Alone. Oh,” remembering his 
empty sleeve, “I expect he’d wipe up the floor 
with me, but I’d tell him a few simple, home 
truths first.” 

“I tell you, Noel, ordinary rules of conduct 
don’t apply to men like Petrovitch. He’s a genius, 
a heaven-born genius. You’ve never even heard 
him play. There’s nothing like it—there never 
has been anything like it. Oh, yes, he’s made me 
suffer, but I forgive him for it, because he’s a king 
among men.” 

“A king! My good aunt, pull yourself to¬ 
gether and observe the way he eats asparagus. 
There! I knew it . . . he’s dribbled some of the 


160 MADAME CLAIRE 

melted butter down his chin and on to his waist¬ 
coat. How would you like the job of spot- 
remover to His Highness? I suppose some 
wretched woman—but has he a wife? I forget.” 

“He has had two,” murmured Connie. 

“How any woman-” began Noel, and gave 

it up. 

“There are men like that. They are unattrac¬ 
tive to other men perhaps, but they have an irre¬ 
sistible fascination for some women. They com¬ 
mand—we obey.” 

“Cut it, Connie!” exclaimed Noel. “Do you 
mean to tell me that if that bounder, to satisfy 
his filthy vanity, said ‘Come,’ you’d go? Like a 
wretched poodle on a string. Good Lord! Where 
is your pride?” 

She shook her head. 

“I only know that I must talk to him again.” 

They finished lunch with little conversation. 
Noel was angry and uncomfortable. As they 
drank their coffee, and he saw that Petrovitch 
too was nearing the end, he made another effort. 

“Connie, let’s get out before he’s finished. Will 
you? You’ll be glad of it all your life. I prom¬ 
ise you you will. It means a lot to me.” 

His earnestness had no effect. He went on: 

“You’ve always followed the line of least re- 



MADAME CLAIRE 


161 


sistance—that’s why you’re what you are now. 
You’ve chucked away your life. Don’t do it 
again, Connie. You know what that man’s opin¬ 
ion of you is. He showed it pretty clearly when 
he beckoned to you just now. There’s just one 
way you can hurt him—and one way you can 
prove to him, and to yourself, that you’ve got the 
right stuff in you. Leave here with me, without 
speaking to him. Please, Connie. Will you?” 

She wavered. Then she seized upon some 
words of his, and he knew that he had lost. 

“Hurt him? I wouldn’t hurt him for anything 
in the world. I want to show him that one woman 
at least is faithful to him, to the end.” 

This was too much for Noel. He remembered 
the French officer, Freeman, Chiozzi, and felt 
sick. His impulse was to get up and leave her 
then and there, but he stayed with a set jaw and 
angry eyes. His hair seemed to bristle with an¬ 
tagonism when Petrovitch pushed back his chair 
at last and said to his companion: 

“Pardon—a moment. I go to speak to a lady.” 
And in a second he was at their table. 

Connie gave him both hands without speaking, 
and he bent over them with a smile that was a 
mere widening of those protruding lips. 

“Connie! As beautiful as ever! My dear 


162 


MADAME CLAIRE 


lady, the sight of you takes ten—fifteen years 
from my age. I feel young again, and happy. 
You come to my concert next week, eh? I play 
for you.” 

“Same old stuff!” thought Noel. 

Connie released her hands, and when she spoke 
her voice was breathless and unnatural, as if she 
had been running. 

“I ... I didn’t know you were here. ... I 
hadn’t seen any notices. I thought you were still 
in America. This is a great surprise to me, 
Illiodor.” Then, turning to Noel, “I want you 
to meet Monsieur Petrovitch, Noel. My 
nephew ...” 

Noel, standing behind his chair and feeling 
younger and more intolerant than he had ever 
felt in his life, inclined his head. 

“Eh? Your nephew? Charmed.” The great 
man bowed, impressively. “Are you too a lover 
of music?” He bent his frowning gaze upon the 
young man. “But no, you are English. So, you 
will say, is the adorable aunt. But she is differ¬ 
ent. She is of the world, eh? She loves beauty, 
art, genius.” He moved his large hands. “Ah, 
Connie, you and I had much in common. They 
told me you had married again. Is it true?” 

“I married Count Chiozzi, four years ago,” 


MADAME CLAIRE 163 

she told him. “My husband is in the south of 
France.” 

“Always the good cosmopolitan!” he approved. 
Then turning once more to Noel: 

“You also will come to mv concert.” 

•t 

“Expects me to say, ‘Yes, master!’” thought 
Noel. 

“No, thanks,” he answered evenly and casually. 
“I don’t care for concerts.” 

Petrovitch looked at Connie, working his prom¬ 
inent brows. 

“Philistine, eh? No matter, you are one of us. 
I am staying here. You will do me the honor to 
dine with me to-morrow night. Good! We have 
much to say to one another. Perhaps also my 
friend Silberstein, eh? He is gourmet. He will 
eat, you will talk to me.” He could frown and 
smile at the same time, Noel observed. “At 
eight.” 

“I’ll come,” said the fascinated Connie. 

He bent once more over her hands. 

“Au revoir, my dear friend,” he said, in his 
strangely harsh voice. “To-morrow night.” 
Then with an indifferent nod of the head in Noel’s 
direction, he returned to his table. 

Connie paid the bill—she always insisted on 
that—in a sort of trance, with a little excited smile 


MADAME CLAIRE 


164 

on her lips. As they got up to go out she threw 
a glance at Petrovitch, and left the room, still 
with that trancelike smile. It irritated Noel be¬ 
yond expression. It plainly said: 

“He is not indifferent to me. He has forgotten 
nothing. I shall live again.” 

Very little was said on the way to Connie’s 
hotel. She was beyond speech for the present— 
she was reliving the days when the world was 
at Petrovitch’s feet, and he, the master, was at 
hers. For she believed now that it was the depth 
and tumult of his passion for her that had carried 
her away. She had forgotten her notes, her flow¬ 
ers, the interviews she had prayed for—forgotten 
all that. She won him by deliberate assault, but 
once won, she became his slave, and it was as his 
adoring slave in those first, brief, happy months, 
that she liked to remember herself. 

Noel was disgusted and annoyed. Also, he was 
extremely disappointed. Was all his scolding, his 
chaffing, his affection for her, the influence he had 
gained, to go for nothing now? Simply because 
that . . . brute . . . had turned up again? Was 
there nothing he could say or do to save her? 
What would Claire say? And then he asked him¬ 
self, well, what would Claire say? Why not find 
out? That was an idea. He would find out. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


165 

“You’ll come upstairs, won’t you?” she asked 
when they were in the hall of the hotel. Noel 
thought her invitation somewhat perfunctory. 
He suspected she wanted to be alone with her 
thoughts. Nevertheless, he meant to come, 
presently. 

“Yes, I’ll be up in a minute,” he said. “You 
go on. I’ve got to ring up somebody.” 

The lift carried her up out of his sight and he 
went into the telephone booth and rang up Ma¬ 
dame Claire. Her telephone stood on a table 
close beside her chair, and he had hardly a second 
to wait before she answered. 

“Yes? Oh, it’s you, Noel. Where are you?” 

He told her. Then he described briefly the 
luncheon at Claridge’s and what befell there. 

“I saw the announcement of his concert in last 
Sunday’s paper,” she said. “Connie never reads 
the papers, or she would have seen it herself. 
What is he like now?” 

“I don’t want to use offensive language over 
the telephone,” he answered. 

He heard Madame Claire’s laugh. 

“Well, Noel, I think the whole thing is in your 
hands. You are the only one who can do any¬ 
thing with her. If I say anything she will only 
tell me I am tryng to rob her of her happiness. 


166 MADAME CLAIRE 

You know how she talks—such sentimental non¬ 
sense !” 

“But I don’t see that I can do anything either. 
What can I do?” 

“Of course you can do something. She knows 
well enough that Petrovitch is here to-day and 
gone to-morrow, while you’re her nephew for life. 
Make her choose, Noel. It will appeal to her 
sense of the dramatic. You’ll see. Make her 
choose.” 

“Him or me, you mean? I believe she’d choose 
him.” 

“I’m not so sure. But try it, anyway. You’re 
so good about managing Connie.” 

“All right,” he said. “I’ll try.” 

“Oh, and Noel, if she chooses you, you might 
be magnanimous and offer to take her to his con¬ 
cert next week. I think you could safely do that. 
Good-by. I can’t talk any more. Millie is just 
coming up to see me, and she mustn’t hear this. 
Good-by and good luck!” 

Noel remained for a thoughtful moment in the 
booth, and then went upstairs. Claire was quite 
right. It was the only chance. 

He found his troublesome aunt waiting for him 
in her sitting room. She was humming softly and 


MADAME CLAIRE 167 

looking out of the window. His indignation grew 
as he looked at her. 

“Connie,” he said quietly. “About this Petro- 
vitch business. I’m pretty angry about it, as you 
know perfectly well. I’ve made up my mind that 
you’ll have to choose between me and that fellow, 
and choose here and now. You can’t have us both. 
If you go out to dinner with Petrovitch to-morrow 
night or any other night, or have anything fur¬ 
ther to do with him, that’s the end as far as I’m 
concerned. You won’t see me again.” 

Connie came swiftly back from dreams of 
Petrovitch and seized Noel’s arm. 

“Noel! You can’t mean that! You can’t mean 
that you’d drop me—have nothing more to do 
with me? Oh, Noel!” 

“I’ve said it and I mean it. It’s up to you. 
If you have anything more to do with that 
bounder, I’ll have nothing more to do with you. 
And that’s flat.” 

She pleaded with him. He didn’t understand 
Petrovitch. He didn’t understand her. Ordi¬ 
nary rules didn’t apply to him because he was a 
genius, nor to her because she loved him. If Noel 
were older- 

That was more than he could bear. 

“That’ll do, Connie. I’m not a fool. I’ve been 



i68 


MADAME CLAIRE 


sorry for you because you were down on your 
luck; and anyway, I’m always sorry for people 
like you. And I’m fond of you, too. But if 
you’re going to be so damn weak, and slop over 
with disgusting sentiment—well, I’m off.” 

Connie looked out of the window again. 

“If you’ll pull up and try to make something of 
your life, I’m with you. If not, I’m through.” 

“I can’t give him up,” moaned Connie. “I 
want to talk over old times with him, and hear 
him say that he loved me once. It means every¬ 
thing to me. I must talk to him, Noel!” 

“All right. Then that’s that. Well, I’m walk¬ 
ing home. I feel I need a little air after all this. 
It’s good-by then, Connie?” 

He held out his hand. She turned and looked 
at him wildly. 

“Noel, I never thought you could be so hard! 
You don’t know how miserable you’re making 
me!” 

“There’s Eric, too,” he reminded her. “Don’t 
forget he’s got no love for Petrovitch. Don’t 
forget Humphries was his friend. Eric’s 
been pretty decent to you. As for ... as for 
Claire! . . .” 

Tears welled into her eyes. Noel, who, like 


MADAME CLAIRE 169 

many another man, found them undermining the 
foundations of his wrath, softened a little. 

“Sleep on it, Connie,” he said more kindly. 
“I’ll give you until to-morrow to make up your 
mind. Ring me up in the morning and let me 
know what you’ve decided to do. So long!” 

And he turned and left her. 




CHAPTER XV 


“Bless you, Claire,” began Stephen’s next let¬ 
ter, (< you make even my life worth living. Your 
letters are my one delight. All the same, we are 
poles apart in some things. You say, ‘Oh, the joy 
of wanting nothing!’ I would say, ‘Oh, the mis¬ 
ery of wanting nothing!’ But fortunately there is 
one great want that keeps my old hones above 
ground, and that is the longing I have to see you 
and Judy and Eric again. Of course I was a fool 
not to marry. It may he fun to he a bachelor 
when you’re young, hut it’s hell when you’re old. 
I marvel at the number of women who face a life 
of single cussedness voluntarily. With me, there 
has been only one woman, and she holds this let¬ 
ter in her hands, as she has always held the 
writer’s heart in her hands. But I’ve known 
plenty of women who would have made good 
wives, and perhaps given me Judys and Erics. 

“Yes, you are right; I took defeat badly. My 
advice, now, would always be to marry—as best 
one can. There is nearly always a compromise 
to be made. There would have been no com - 


170 


MADAME CLAIRE 


171 

promise, on my part, had I married you. There¬ 
fore it was not to he, for the perfect thing is 
always out of reach. Don't tell me your marriage 
with Robert was perfect. Robert was my best 
friend and I knew his faults. But he made you 
happy, and that is the great thing. It ought to 
be carven on a man's tombstone, ( He made a 
woman happy.' Well, at least, they can carve on 
mine, 'He made no woman unhappy.' 

il I am feeling much better to-day, so Miss 
McPherson is correspondingly gloomy. But she 
is a good, devoted soul, and has borne with me 
wonderfully, and I have settled something on her. 
Which brings me to your last letter. If Judy and 
that fellow want to marry, I will gladly settle 
something on Judy. Don't tell her, of course. 
People who really care for each other ought to be 
endowed if they can't afford to marry. I don't 
see the good of waiting till I'm dead. I will do 
what I should do if Judy were my daughter. You 
must let me know how things go. There's only 
my niece Monica to think of. She’ll give what I 
leave her to the Church. I don't mind that, for 
though the Church has never done much for me 
—admittedly through my own fault—it has for 
other people. 

“And that brings me to a subject I approach 


MADAME CLAIRE 


172 

with diffidence. Don’t think me in my dotage, 
Claire, if I tell you that I have become interested 
in Spiritualism. I’ve been reading a great deal, 
and I have come to the unalterable conclusion 
that men like Crooks, Myers, Lodge and Doyle 
knozv what they are talking about. Some of us 
take our religion on trust. Others of us want to 
find out. Having floundered in a sea of agnosti¬ 
cism all my life long, I now begin to feel the 
ground beneath my feet. I got more out of the 
‘Vital Message 9 in an hour than I’ve got out of 
parsons in seventy years. I believe that if Spirit¬ 
ualism were rightly understood, it would fuse all 
religions and all sects. I need hardly tell you that 
the Spiritualism I mean does not depend on knocks 
ings and rappings, and the horrible fake-seances 
of the mercenary minded. Some day I must talk 
to you about this. I have said enough here, per¬ 
haps too much; but I wanted to tell you of the 
thing that has meant so much to me. 

“If I continue as well as this I may come to 
London next month. London! Shall I know it, 
I wonder? It will not know me. But you will, 
and that is all I ask. “Stephen.’’ 

To this, Madame Claire made immediate 
reply: 


MADAME CLAIRE 


173 


“My dear Stephen, 

“Your long letter was all too short for my 
liking. I feel you are really better, and I can’t 
tell you how happy that makes me. About your 
coming I hardly dare to think. How good, how 
good it will be! There is a brass band of sorts 
playing under my window, and I wish it would 
stay and play all day. That shows how happy 
I am. And to that end, I am wondering whether 
it would be better to pay or to refrain from pay¬ 
ing. I am uncritical enough at the moment to feel 
that any music is good music. 

“How pleasant it would be if we could have 
appropriate music at all crucial, or difficult, or 
delightful moments • in our lives! When one is 
first introduced to one’s husband’s relations, for 
instance. I think Chopin would help to tide us 
over that. In a bloodless battle with one’s dress¬ 
maker over a bill, I would recommend Tchaikow- 
sky, or Rimsky-Korsakov. For moments of deep 
feeling, for love, we would each, I imagine, choose 
something different. I think I would choose Bach, 
for Bach is too great for sentiment. As for dying 
—every one should die to music. I should think 
young people, for instance, would choose to drift 
into eternity upon the strains of the loveliest and 
latest waltz. At least I have often heard them 


MADAME CLAIRE 


:i74 

say they could die waltzing. There are hits of 
Wagner that I wouldn’t mind dying to. You’ll 
say dying is too serious a subject for jest. But I 
can’t see that it’s any more serious than living, 
which so many people are entirely frivolous about. 

“Ah, no, Stephen, I don’t think you are in your 
dotage. I too have read a good deal about Spirit¬ 
ualism, and I believe that what these men say is 
true. But I suppose I am one of those fortunate 
people who have faith, and that being so I had no 
need of proof. I don’t know how my faith came 
to me. I have always had it, and so don’t deserve 
any credit for it. The credit goes to people like 
you, who have had to struggle all their lives 
against unbelief. I believe, too, that so long as , 
there is a diversity of creatures on this globe, so 
long will there be a diversity of religions. There 
is only one God, but the roads to the understand¬ 
ing of God are many. 

“And so for you, and thousands like you, there 
is Crooks, with his laboratories and his cameras 
and his proofs. And for others there is Beauty. 
Hear what Tagore says: 

“ ‘Thou art the sky and Thou art also the nest. 

O Thou Beautiful! How in the nest Thy love erabraceth 
the soul with sweet sounds and color and fragrant 
odors 1 


MADAME CLAIRE 


I7S 

Morning cometh there, bearing in her golden basket the 
wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. 

And there cometh Evening, o’er lonely meadows deserted 

of the herds, by trackless ways, carrying in her golden 
# 

pitcher cool draughts of peace from the ocean-calms 
of the west. 

But where Thine infinite sky spreadeth for the soul to take 
her flight, a stainless white radiance reigneth; wherein 
is neither day nor night, nor form nor color, nor ever 
any word.’ 

“And for others again, there is simply — 

“ ( I am the Resurrection and the Life . . . 
“Write again soon. I long to know how you 
are progressing . 

“Yours as ever , 

“Claire/’ 


CHAPTER XVI 


When Noel woke, the morning after his ulti¬ 
matum to Connie, he was at once aware that 
something was to make that day different from 
other days, but for a moment he couldn’t remem¬ 
ber what that something was. Then, as the hap¬ 
penings of the previous day came back to him, he 
said to himself, “Connie and Petrovitch,” and 
sprang out of bed. He dressed quickly—for he 
had reduced the business of dressing himself with 
one hand to an exact science—and knocked on 
Judy’s door. He heard her call, “Come in if it’s 
Noel,” and obeyed. Judy was standing before 
her mirror, brushing her brown hair. Her bright 
red silk dressing gown made a lovely splash of 
color in the restrained little room. 

“What are you up so early for?” she asked. 
“Something on your conscience, old boy?” 

“Not on mine,” he assured her. “Mind if I 
smoke? I bet you often do before breakfast.” 

“Never. You may though. You’ve evidently 
got something to tell me. Even if I am the spin- 

176 


MADAME CLAIRE 


177 

ster type, I understand the workings of the male 
mind. What’s up?” 

“It’s about Connie,” he began; then broke off 
to say, “One of these days I’ll buy you a comfort¬ 
able chair. This one’s got a back like a pew in a 
Quaker meetinghouse. However—you know yes¬ 
terday was Connie’s birthday?” 

“Of course I know. Didn’t I send her a bunch 
of lilies-of-the-valley ? Lilies for purity. Well, 
what about it?” 

“Perhaps you are also aware that she asked me 
to lunch at Claridge’s. Before we’d been there 
ten minutes, who do you suppose came in and sat 
at a table almost next to ours?” 

“Chiozzi?” 

“Guess again.” 

“Noel, you know I hate these guessing games. 
Freeman? Oh, no, he’s dead. It was some one 
to do with Connie, I suppose. Petrovitch, then?” 

“No other. The dirty dog!” 

“The plot thickens!” exclaimed Judy. “What 
happened then?” 

“Connie saw him, and nearly swooned for joy. 
And then if you please, the great brute saw her 
and beckoned. Beckoned, do you hear? And 
she’d have gone to him if I’d let her.” 

“How beastly!” 



MADAME CLAIRE 


178 

“I talked to her gently but firmly, but she was 
up in the air. We got through lunch somehow, 
and then I tried to persuade her to get out before 
he could speak to her. But she wouldn’t budge. 
He didn’t move either until he’d almost finished 
feeding. Then he came to our table. I wish you 
could have seen Connie registering soulfulness. I 
can tell you, a close-up of both of them would 
have been pleasing to a screen audience. After 
twenty years the villain sees the heroine again. 
Tableau!” 

“Yes. Well, go on.” 

“We exchanged a pleasantry or two, and then 
he commanded Connie to dine with him to-night. 
Connie of course was writhing on the mat for pure 
joy, and barking short, happy barks. She licked 
his hand and meekly indicated that his lightest 
wish was her law. Then we went. I wasn’t feel¬ 
ing full of love for human nature by that time, I 
can tell you. I didn’t know what to do, so I rang 
up Claire and she advised me to issue an ultima¬ 
tum. Which I did. I said that if she spoke to 
Petrovitch again, all was over between us. Sob 
stuff from Connie. I really was sorry for her. In 
the end I told her to sleep on it, and to ring me 
up in the morning. Then I left her. Do you 
think I did right?” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


179 


Judy considered. 

“It would half kill her not to see you again. 
She adores you, you know. But I think Claire 
was right. If that won’t pull her up, nothing will. 
What do you think she’ll do?” 

“Oh, she’ll dine with Petrovitch, all right,” 
prophesied Noel gloomily. “Hang it all! I 
thought she’d learned something. I didn’t expect 
her to change her nature all at once, but I did 
think she’d begun to see the silliness of that sort 
of behavior.” 

“The way of the reformer is hard,” said his 
sister. 

“Oh, I’m not trying to reform her. I only 
wanted to show her that she’d get more out of 
life if she tried another tack. And I believe she 
was beginning to see it, too. If only that—swine 
hadn’t come along!-” 

“Well, stick to your guns,” advised Judy. “I 
have a feeling that she’ll come round. But, Noel, 
if she doesn’t come round?-” 

“Exactly. If she doesn’t, ought I to keep my 
threat? After all, perhaps I’ve no right . . . 
I suppose it’s difficult ... if I thought it would 
cure her to see him a few times, I’d let her. But 
he’s her hero for life, spots and all.” 

“Spots?” Judy paused with upraised arms. 




i8o 


MADAME CLAIRE 


“Any number of ’em. On his clothes. A dirty 
feeder. As for his hair! . . 

“Isn’t it queer, Noel? That sort of thing? I 
can’t understand it, can you?” 

“I don’t want to,” he said shortly. “I’ve 
thought of kidnapping Connie and shutting her 
up somewhere till he goes. He’ll only be here a 
week or so. I saw it in the paper last night.” 

Judy laughed as she pinned her hair into place. 

“Poor old Connie! She’s sure to do the wrong 
thing, I suppose. She always has. But there’s 
just a chance. She’s so fond of you.” 

“I’m rather fond of her. She’s a good sort, 
really, under all this Camille business. She 
doesn’t understand you though.” 

“I can bear that,” replied his sister. 

“It’s a funny thing,” remarked Noel, remember¬ 
ing her comments on the subject of Judy and 
Chip, “but I believe that if Connie hadn’t been 
. . . what she is . . . she’d have been a terribly 
conventional woman. I think she’s a sort of 
Millie-gone-wrong.” 

This amused Judy greatly. 

“If only mother could hear you say that!” she 
said. 

“What’s on to-night?” he asked. “Anything 
doing here?” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


181 


“Have you forgotten? Major Crosby’s coming 
to dinner, and we promised to give him a dancing 
lesson.” 

“Chip! So he is! This bother about Connie 
put it out of my head for the moment. What 
shall I do if she asks me to take her out to din¬ 
ner? As she may do, if she decides not to see 
Petrovitch.” 

“Then I suppose you must take her.” 

“We might dine early and come here after,” 
he suggested. “Would mother object, do you 
think?” 

“You’d better ask her,” she said. “Mother 
has only seen her once since she came back, and 
then she went to her hotel heavily veiled.” 

Noel nodded appreciatively. 

“Well, I’ll ask her. There’s no harm in Con¬ 
nie, poor old thing. Will Gordon be home?” 

“Yes. Helen’s dining here too. I didn’t want 
her a bit to-night. She’s so—patronizing. Not 
to me, but to strangers. And Chip will be shyer 
than ever.” 

“Well, remember,” Noel cautioned her, “Chip’s 
my friend. We met at the Club. It was only 
a few yards away, so that isn’t much of a fib. 
That’s what I’ve given out.” 

“Very well,” said Judy. “I’m rather dread- 


182 


MADAME CLAIRE 


ing to-night, really. I’d like to have kept Chip 
to ourselves, if we could. But I suppose it 
wouldn’t have done.” 

The gong boomed loudly, and Judy flew to get 
a! dress out of her wardrobe, 

When they met at breakfast a few minutes 
later, they said good morning as though they 
hadn’t seen each other before. In the midst of 
their family, the brother and sister had from 
childhood maintained a sort of Secret Society. 
Their two minds, critical and inquiring from the 
first, had early found themselves in tune with 
each other and out of tune with the rest. When 
Judy looked back on her childhood and girlhood, 
it always seemed to her to be streaked with light 
and dark spots. The light spots were Noel’s 
vacations, and the times when they were together, 
and the dark spots were the long school terms, 
and—darkest spot of all—his absence at the war. 
But even as a child the joy of having him with 
her was always faintly shadowed by the fear of 
some day not having him. For years she had 
said to herself: 

“If I could only love some one else as much 
as I do Noel, then fate would have a choice of 
two marks.” 

And if the other members of the family ob- 


MADAME CLAIRE 


183 

jected to the brother and sister’s marked prefer¬ 
ence for each other’s society, they kept it to them¬ 
selves remarkably well. 

The Pendletons always had family prayers. 
Mrs. Pendleton insisted on them less from con¬ 
viction than for the reason that all the other 
Pendletons had them, and she believed they had 
a good effect on the servants. So the entire house¬ 
hold assembled in the dining room at a quarter 
to nine, and if any one was late, he or she was 
waited for. This morning Gordon was late, but 
when he was the offender, nothing was said. 

Mr. Pendleton officiated. He was a little man, 
with what the Pendletons chose to call a hand¬ 
some nose. Most people thought it merely large. 
His face barely escaped being intellectual, but 
something narrow about the forehead and peevish 
about the mouth, spoiled the effect. Noel looked 
the most like him, but Noel’s forehead and mouth 
had what his father’s lacked. Fortunately he 
took after his mother in the matter of height, 
for Millie was a good five inches taller than her 
husband. In her large, charmless way she was 
handsome, and had regular and uninteresting 
features. It was difficult to see in Judy the least 
trace of likeness to either of her parents, while 
Gordon, on the contrary, was the image of his 


MADAME CLAIRE 


184 

mother, and she idolized him. She was prepared, 
too, to find in Helen, when she became his wife, 
all that she found lacking in Judy. 

Prayers over, breakfast immediately followed. 
It was usually a quiet meal, enlivened only by 
excursions after food, and the rustle of news¬ 
papers. But this morning there was an uncom¬ 
mon amount of talk. It went as follows: 

Mr. Pendleton: “Gordon, I hope you haven’t 
forgotten you are lunching with Sir William to¬ 
day at his club.” 

Gordon: “No, father. I hadn’t forgotten. 
Won’t you be there too?” 

Mr. Pendleton: “Unfortunately, it is not pos¬ 
sible. I have a very trying day ahead of me.” 
(Mr. Pendleton was a barrister, but his large 
income made work less a necessity than a hobby.) 

Millie: “I shall be glad when the summer 
comes, John, and you can take a holiday. By 
the way, I wish you’d all make up your minds 
where you want to go this year.” 

Noel: “Must we decide six months ahead?” 

Millie: “We always have done so. I like to 
know in good time what I’m going to do. We 
could go abroad, I suppose, but your father thinks 
we ought to go to Scotland as usual.” 



MADAME CLAIRE 185 

Judy: “Why can’t we all go where we like? 
Must we have a holiday en masse?’’ 

Mr. Pendleton: “You can hardly speak of a 
small party of five as going ‘en masse.’ ” 

Gordon: “I won’t be one of the party, so it’s 
only four. You know, Mother, Helen and I will 
be at Ottway Castle for July and August.” 

Millie: “Of course, dear. I know you are pro¬ 
vided for. It’s Judy and Noel I was thinking of.” 

Judy: “But why don’t you and father go to 
Scotland, and let Noel and me go somewhere else 
—Devon or Cornwall for a change. It’s so dull 
doing the same thing every year.” 

Mr. Pendleton: “I think we will all go together 
as usual.” 

(Silence.) 

Judy: “Then why ask us to make up our minds 
where we want to go?” 

Mr. Pendleton: “Your mother asked. Person¬ 
ally, I am convinced that Scotland is the most 
bracing.” 

Judy: “I really don’t feel I want to be braced. 
Do you, Noel?” 

Noel: “I loathe bracing places.” 

Mr. Pendleton: “Then let us all go to Corn¬ 
wall.” 

Millie: “I find Cornwall so relaxing.” 




186 MADAME CLAIRE 

Judy: “I think I’d like just to stay in Sussex 
with Claire.” 

Mr. Pendleton: “You know, Judy, I dislike 
very much hearing you speak of your grandmother 
as Claire.” 

Judy: “Sorry, father. I forgot.” 

(Silence.) 

Noel: “By the way, mother, I’ve got rather 
a good idea. I may be taking Con—Aunt Connie 
out to dinner to-night. Suppose I bring her here 
afterwards? It would cheer her up a lot. I know 
she likes seeing people dance. You wouldn’t mind, 
would you?” 

Gordon: “Noel, you really are a bit of an ass 
sometimes! You know Helen’s coming here to¬ 
night. How could I possibly ask her to meet 
Aunt Connie?” 

Noel: “Why not?” 

Gordon: “If you don’t know why not, you 
ought to.” 

Noel: “Chuck it, Gordon! Don’t be such a 
prig. What about Helen’s friend, Oriana Tem¬ 
ple? If Connie can teach her anything!-” 

Gordon: “Please leave Helen and her friends 
out of the discussion.” 

Noel: “Right. But you brought her in. Any¬ 
how, I asked mother. Mother, you don’t mind 



MADAME CLAIRE 187 

if Connie comes here to-night, do you? After 
all, she’s your sister, and it would be doing her 
a kindness.” 

Millie: “Gordon is quite right, Noel. There 
is no reason why we should inflict our family 
skeleton on Helen. If Connie is an unhappy 
woman, it’s entirely her own fault. She has for¬ 
feited the right to be with decent people. Don’t 
you agree with me, John?” 

Mr. Pendleton (unexpectedly) : “I think, my 
dear, that if we can help Connie, we ought to 
do so. I feel she has a claim upon us, and as 
Christian people we have no right to ignore it. 
Is isn’t as though the children were growing up; 
and after all, Gordon, Helen is marrying into 
our family.” 

Noel: “Good for you, dad!” 

Gordon: “Let her come by all means. Helen 
and I will dine here another night.” 

Millie: “It’s very tiresome of you, Noel, to 
upset everything like this. And while we’re on 
the subject of Aunt Connie, I want to say that 
I don’t mind your being polite to her, but I do 
not like your going about with her so much. If 
you had to ask her here, some other night would 
have done as well. I’m certain your friend Major 
Crosby won't want to meet her.” 


188 


MADAME CLAIRE 


Noel: “He won’t mind. Besides, he doesn’t 
know anything about her. And I had a particular 
reason for wanting to bring her to-night.” 

Gordon: “That’s settled, then. Helen and I 

will dine here to-morrow night, mother.” 

% 

Judy and Noel were amazed at the stand their 
father had taken. 

“I never thought dad had it in him,” Noel 
said later. 

“Influence of morning prayers,” answered Judy. 
“Father’s always nicest just after prayers.” 

At ten o’clock the maid sought out Noel with 
the message that Countess Chiozzi was on the 
telephone and would like to speak to him. 

“I lose, I’ll bet,” said Noel to Judy as he left 
the room. 

“Hello, Connie!” he began cheerfully. “How’s 
my aunt this morning? Feeling better? Good! 
I was rather a beast yesterday, wasn’t I?” 

“Yes, you were,” a rather dejected voice re¬ 
plied. “I hardly slept a wink all night. Noel, 
it’s . . . it’s breaking my heart, but I know I 
can’t give you up. There’s no use. ... I can’t.” 

“Right you are! You don’t have to. Tell you 
what—we’ll go for a bean-o to-night. I’ll dine 
you at a new place I wot of, and then I’ll bring 
you back here. There’ll be just the family, and 


MADAME CLAIRE 189 

Major Crosby, and perhaps one or two others. 
Oh, and I’ll teach you to dance. What do you 
say? Nothing like dancing to keep you young.” 

Connie hesitated, then said rather dubiously: 

“But nobody wants me there. Does Mil¬ 
lie-” 

“Just you come along and see. I’ll call for you 
at seven. Make yourself beautiful. The gray 
chiffon, with pearls—what?” 

“Oh, that? Very well. Noel, I shall be dread¬ 
fully nervous.” 

“Nervous! Nonsense, Countess! Pull up your 
socks. And, by the way, Connie, a light hand 
with the make-up. I’ll inspect you at seven. And 
—oh, one thing more. How would you like me 
to take you to What’s-His-Name’s concert next 
Friday? You can feast your eyes and ears on him 
then.” 

“You are generous, Noel! It would mean 
everything to me.” 

“I’ll get seats, then. You’re a sport, Connie. 
So long!” 

He left the telephone, whistling jubilantly, and 
went to tell Judy the news. Then he told his 
mother, who was less pleased. 

“It’s a piece of impertinence, her coming to 
London at all. I don’t know what your grand- 






MADAME CLAIRE 


190 

mother could have been thinking of. I won’t 
object to her coming this once, but it mustn’t 
happen again. We owe it to Gordon to keep her 
in the background.” 

Noel left it at that. He never argued with his 
mother. 

Gordon had reckoned without his Helen, who 
prided herself on being modern. When he told 
her he would rather she dined there the following 
night, she wanted to know the reason. 

“Not that beautiful Mrs. Humphries who ran 
off with Petrovitch? I’d quite forgotten she was 
your aunt. What nonsense, Gordon! Of course 
I shall come. As if her past made the slightest 
difference to me! I hear she’s still quite lovely.” 

Gordon reported this new development to his 
mother in his own way. 

“Helen’s been awfully nice about it,” Millie 
told her husband later. “She told Gordon she 
didn’t mind meeting Connie at all, and that as 
she was marrying into the family she intended 
taking the rough with the smooth. She’s such a 
sensible girl!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


Judy had neither seen nor heard from Major 
Crosby since the day they had tea together at 
Madame Claire’s. She had written him a note 
to thank him for his flowers, the sending of which 
had both pleased and touched her. Knowing his 
poverty and his reserve, she read into his gift, 
more, perhaps, than he had intended she should. 
Chip looked upon the sending of flowers as the 
natural tribute to be paid to any charming woman, 
and imagined in his simplicity, that she must 
receive very many such gifts. She guessed this, 
but at the same time she also guessed that never 
before in his life, probably, had he sent flowers 
to a woman. Pink roses, too. . . . 

She wondered about him a good deal—won¬ 
dered what he did with himself evenings, and 
where and how he spent his Sundays. Like Ma¬ 
dame Claire, she felt that Chip was a man not 
marked for success, but at least she was deter¬ 
mined that, whatever happened, his life should be 
less empty and colorless because of that accident 
in the fog. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


192 

On the whole, however, she dreaded the evening 
for him. She felt that he would be neither 
amused nor benefited by it. She knew she would 
get little help from her mother, and as for Gordon 
and Helen, they never bothered with people unless 
they mattered. 

Once more, Helen had not been reckoned with. 
She sat next to Chip at table, and soon saw that 
he had eyes only for her future sister-in-law— 
and a tongue only for her too, it seemed. Helen 
decided to be bored at first, but as she was slightly 
annoyed with Gordon, who sat on her left, she 
presently turned her batteries full on the surprised 
Chip, who had no idea he was neglecting his neigh¬ 
bor. Helen could be very charming when the 
spirit moved her. After inviting him to her house 
to meet a writer whose work he admired, she went 
on to what she had learned was his chief interest. 
That she lowered her voice to discuss. 

“A tremendously important subject ... we 
moderns want to know . . . made rather a study 
of these things myself . . . esoteric beliefs . . .” 
were scraps that Judy’s ears couldn’t ignore. And 
later, “I do wish we’d met before. Why is it 
that people who do things that are worth while 
are always so hard to get at? One has to hunt 


MADAME CLAIRE 


193 

them out of their holes, as,” she laughed, “I 
mean to hunt you.” 

Chip made some appropriate answer to this, 
and Helen was about to continue her attack when 
Millie cut in with: 

“Is it the Crosbys of Crosby Steynes, or the 
Crosbys of Middle Regis you’re related to, 
Major Crosby? They’re both such delightful 
people.” 

And Chip was lost to the rest of the table for 
a good ten minutes while he and Millie dived 
together into a sea of relationships. At the end 
of it, Millie came to the surface with nothing 
better in the way of a catch than some entirely 
unclassified Crosbys who lived somewhere near 
Aberdeen. The ladies then departed to the draw¬ 
ing-room. 

Left alone with Mr. Pendleton, Gordon and 
a friend of his, a Captain Stevens from the For¬ 
eign Office, Chip did some classifying on his own 
account. Gordon, he decided, was a young man 
who had much to learn, but the chances were that 
he would never learn it. He liked Mr. Pendle¬ 
ton, who was determined to be a pleasant host. 
As for Captain Stevens, he thought him a nice 
fellow, in spite of his admission that he spent his 
nights dancing. He wondered at first if perhaps 


MADAME CLAIRE 




194 


Judy—but five minutes’ conversation with the 
young man convinced him that he wasn’t Judy’s 
sort. He missed Noel, with his easy manners, 
and his human touch. 

When they went up to the drawing-room, which 
was cleared for dancing, he went straight to Judy, 
and sat beside her on*a settee, thus defeating Cap¬ 
tain Stevens, who had intended doing the same 
thing. 

“Is this where I begin?” asked Chip, looking 
fearfully at the satiny floor. 

“I don’t know,” said Judy. “I’m wondering 
that myself. Suppose we let the young people 
dance to-night?” She laughed. “Somehow I 
haven’t the heart to make you. I’m afraid you’ll 
hate it, after all, and I’m not a bit in the mood for 
it myself.” 

“I don’t want you to think me a coward,” Chip 
told her, “but I’d be ever so much happier if I 
could stay just where I am. Perhaps I could 
learn something by watching Captain Stevens. I 
expect he dances like a wave of the sea.” 

“He’s marvelous,” agreed Judy. “Hundreds 
of maidens have tried to marry him for his 
dancing, but I understand he’s never yet met h s 
equal and won’t wed until he does.” 

Chip shook his head. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


195 

“I feel like Rip Van Winkle. I believe several 
generations have gone by without my noticing it. 
But r ve made up my mind to learn something 
about this one. When do your brother and Miss 
Dane expect to be married?” 

“In June. How do you like Helen?” 

“She was very kind. I shouldn’t say it, per¬ 
haps, but wasn’t there something of the Lady 
Bountiful about it all?” 

Judy laughed. 

“Helen likes patronizing the arts. The arts 
are very fashionable just now in her set. I like 
Helen, really. If only she and her friends weren’t 
so fond of posing—and they find new poses every 
year—one would like them better. But it 
isn’t as if Noel were marrying her. Gordon has 
always seemed to belong to other people’s fami¬ 
lies more than to his own, and now of course he’ll 
be entirely absorbed by Lord Ottway’s, and their 
friends and relations.” 

“He’s not a bit like your brother Noel. I think 
Noel is one of the most attractive young men I 
ever met. He has such a way of making one feel 
his friend at once.” 

“Of course there’s no one like him,” said Judy, 
delighted at this praise, “but Gordon’s the one 
who’ll succeed.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


196 

“Ah, very likely. Success. ... I wonder 
which is worse; to ignore it, or to bow down to 
it? I’ve ignored it all my life. I’ve never thought 
about it. And now I’ve suddenly discovered that 
I want it. Yes, I want it badly. And I’m won¬ 
dering if it’s too late ... if it won’t, perhaps, 
ignore me, now?” 

His eyes met hers, frankly. What he meant 
was that without success he felt he could not 
enjoy her friendship. At least he thought he 
meant that. Judy thought he meant something 
quite different. 

Then Noel came in with Connie, and that ended 
their talk for the present. Connie was looking 
wonderfully young and extremely handsome, and 
was no more made up than was permissible. Her 
lovely gray gown and her triple row of pearls— 
Morton Freeman’s gift—became her to perfec¬ 
tion. She looked a different woman from the 
painted, haggard creature Eric had first seen in 
Paris. Millie’s greeting was formal, while Mr. 
Pendleton’s—he had expected something so very 
much worse—was almost effusive. A look from 
Millie, however, soon put him in his place, which, 
for the rest of the evening, was the smoking room. 
Chip was talking to Noel, and Judy was just 
beginning to feel that the evening might not be a 


MADAME CLAIRE 


T 97 

fiasco after all, when Helen, assured and smiling, 
bore down upon Chip. 

“Here’s good dancing material, unless I’m much 
mistaken,” she said. “Any one who appreciates 
poetry must have a sense of rhythm, and if you 
have that, you can dance.” So she led him pro¬ 
testing helplessly, to the floor. 

“Bother Helen,” said Judy under her breath. 
“If he ever did learn to dance, I intended teaching 
him myself.” She felt a little ruffled, although 
she realized perfectly that Helen’s attentions to 
Chip were probably occasioned by some little tiff 
with Gordon. 

As she danced with Captain Stevens, she 
watched Chip, and saw that he was acquitting 
himself creditably. But it seemed to her all 
wrong that he should be dancing at all. It didn’t 
suit him. He wasn’t a dancing man and never 
would be. She was glad of it. There were plenty 
of Captain Stevens’ sort about. She suddenly 
felt a distaste for that form of amusement. In 
the midst of the moving couples, and the raucous 
voice of the gramophone, a wave of distaste and 
boredom came over her. What was she doing 
with her life? Nothing. It was empty, useless, 
senseless. She wasn’t wanted anywhere. And 
now she was trying to drag Chip into that empti- 








MADAME CLAIRE 


198 

ness. To what end? To be told by Helen how 
to point his toes? Better have left him with his 
books. He was too good for that sort of thing. 

If Chip wanted her, she would marry him. 
She liked everything about him—even his oddly 
cut evening clothes, that reminded her of Du 
Maurier’s drawings. She caught his eyes just 
then, and there was a rather pleading look in 
them. He evidently wasn’t enjoying his lesson. 
Well, the gramophone would run down in a min¬ 
ute, and then they could all stop. She hadn’t 
spoken a word to Captain Stevens, who, fortu¬ 
nately, thought she was so thrilled by the per¬ 
fection of his dancing that she didn’t want to spoil 
a perfect moment by speaking. 

She tried to picture herself married to Chip. 
It would mean managing on nothing a year in 
that tiny flat, or one like it. To-night she was 
sure she wouldn’t mind. It would take them 
months—years perhaps, to know each other well. 
It would be such fun finding out. And being 
modern and willing to face facts, she tried to pic¬ 
ture herself wheeling a perambulator about Camp- 
den Hill on the nurse’s day out. By that time 
Chip would have had a great success with his book 
on religions or some other book, and they would 
have a house. Yes, poverty and all, if Chip 


MADAME CLAIRE 


199 

wanted her, she would marry him. Only Noel 
was right. She would have to be bold. . . . 

The gramophone ran down and the dancing 
stopped. Captain Stevens, full of enthusiasm, 
exclaimed: 

“That was glorious! We must have another 
fox-trot.” And went to put on another record. 

Judy made her way to where Connie was sit¬ 
ting, and on hearing her say she had not yet met 
Helen, she introduced them. Helen, who had 
already decided she wouldn’t be above asking 
Connie’s advice about her trousseau, sat beside 
her and talked about Cannes and Monte Carlo, 
while Gordon, who had greeted his aunt with 
extreme coldness, stood a few feet away and 
impersonated a young man in the sulks. Judy was 
about to go to him, when the maid appeared in 
the doorway, and Judy, seeing that she had some¬ 
thing to say to her, crossed the room. 

“You’re wanted on the telephone, Miss Judy,” 
said the maid. “It’s Dawson, and she wants to 
speak to you most particularly, Miss.” 

“Dawson!” exclaimed Judy. “I hope it doesn’t 
mean . . .” but without finishing her sentence she 
ran to the telephone, which was downstairs. 

“Is that you, Miss Judy?” asked Dawson. 
“We’re a little upset here to-night. A telegram 




200 


MADAME CLAIRE 


came from Miss McPherson about Mr. de Lisle, 
and it seems the poor gentleman’s quite ill, and 
wants to see you or Mr. Eric. We’ve rung up 
Mr. Eric, and he says he can’t possibly get away 
this week. So we wondered if you could go, Miss. 
It would mean leaving at once, Miss Judy.” 

Judy didn’t hesitate. 

“Of course I’ll go. Tell Madame Claire I’ll 
go to-morrow. Is she in bed?” 

“She is, Miss. The telegram should have come 
two hours ago, but it was sent to the wrong room. 
We do think, Miss, that it would be better in a 
way for Mr. Eric to go, but we don’t like to take 
any risks, in case the old gentleman’s very ill 
indeed. And it’s out of the question for us to go 
ourselves, Miss.” 

“But of course I’ll go!” Judy repeated. “Daw¬ 
son, tell Madame Claire not to worry, and that 
I’ll be off the very minute I can get a passport. 
I’m so sorry for poor old Mr. de Lisle. Is Ma¬ 
dame Claire very much upset?” 

“Well, not what you’d call upset,” Dawson re¬ 
plied. “We do keep calm, Miss, whatever hap¬ 
pens. But it is sad, the time being so near when 
he hoped to come to England.” 

“He’ll come yet, I feel sure. I’ll send a wire 
to-morrow to say I’m leaving. I’ll probably come 






MADAME CLAIRE 


201 


in the morning for a minute to say good-by. Give 
Madame Claire my love, and tell her the trip will 
be a godsend to me.” 

She went straight to her mother with the news. 
Millie was thoroughly annoyed. 

“I think your grandmother has taken leave of 
her senses,” she said. “First Connie and now 
this. You can’t possibly go to Cannes alone.” 

“Mother!” Judy exclaimed. “Please don’t 
treat me as ’hough I were a child or an imbecile. 
You know perfectly well I can go—and must go. 
If you and father won’t help me, Claire will pay 
my expenses. I know she’ll offer to, anyway.” 

“You had better speak to your father,” said 
Millie with chilling disapproval. 

It was undoubtedly one of Mr. Pendleton’s best 
days. He looked almost indulgently at his hand¬ 
some, excited daughter, and said: 

“Well, Judith, I can see you’re bent on going. 
I suppose you’ll find friends there. You might 
arrange to come back with some of them. My 
only fear is that the old man will die, and that 
would be very awkward for you. They make a 
considerable to-do in France, when people die. 
Still, I suppose if your grandmother wants 
it . . .” 

Considerably later, she found herself alone 


202 


MADAME CLAIRE 


with Chip again. He had been danced with twice 
by Helen, and felt that he had earned a respite. 

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” he 
asked, on hearing the news. 

“I suppose that depends on Mr. de Lisle.” 

“Is he Stephen de Lisle? The man who 
was . . . what was it? . . . Home Secretary, I 
think. A good many years ago. And I seem to 
remember some tremendous quarrel, with the then 
Prime Minister. A man with a very fine head. I 
remember his pictures quite well.” 

“That’s Old Stephen. He was a great, great 
friend of mine when I was seven, and I haven’t 
seen him since. But he’s always been in love 
with Madame Claire—since before she married 
my grandfather. People of their generation did 
that sort of thing—loved for a lifetime. I won¬ 
der why nobody does now?” 

“Are you sure they don’t?” he asked. 

“Certain of it. The thing to do nowadays is 
to console oneself as quickly as possible. And 
I think there is a good deal of prejudice against 
wasting lives, and wasted lives. And rightly, too, 
I suppose.” Then, changing the subject: “I’ll be 
away for several weeks, and I wish you’d write 
to me and let me know if the headaches have 
stopped, and how you’re getting on, generally. I 


MADAME CLAIRE 


203 

shall be at the Riviera Hotel, in Cannes, where 
Old Stephen is.” 

“May I write? But I’m afraid you’ll find my 
letters very dull. I see so few people. I sup¬ 
pose,” he added, “I ought to have had more to 
do with people. Only, when a man has nothing 
whatever to offer, he is apt to retire into his shell. 
I did, and I should have remained there, if it 
hadn’t been for you. . . .” 

“Promise me, then,” she said, looking at him 
seriously, “that you won’t slip back into it again 
the moment my back is turned. I’d like you to see 
something of Madame Claire, and of Noel. They 
both like you, you know, and will want to see 
you. Will you promise me that?” 

“I’ll do anything you think is good for me,” 
he answered, smiling. Then he too looked serious. 

“Miss Pendleton, you don’t know what it means 
to a man to feel himself tied by the lack of money. 
I suppose another man in my place would have 
found some way of making it. No doubt I should 
have chucked writing long ago, or tried to write 
something more lucrative than a book on religion. 
But, on the other hand, should I ? If I have writ¬ 
ten something of any value, if the book is well 
received, I shall feel justified in having spent so 
many years on it. If it isn’t? Well, I don’t know. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


204 

I don’t think I’d have the heart to launch out into 
business, at forty-four. But I hardly expect you 
to understand that. You’re young and happy. 
You have everything in front of you.” 

“Happy?” asked Judy. “Did you say happy?” 

He looked quickly at her. 

“Aren’t you?” 

She met his eyes squarely. 

“If a rat in a trap or a squirrel in a cage is 
happy, then perhaps I am. I hate the life I’m 
living. Yes, I do, I hate it. If it weren’t for 
Noel and Madame Claire, I’d—I don’t know 
what I’d do. Something pretty desperate, just 
to get away from it.” 

He sat looking at her as if he couldn’t trust his 
own senses. She couldn’t be serious. 

“You’re a sentimentalist,” she went on. “You 
believe what you like to believe. I suppose you’ve 
imagined all sorts of pretty things about me. I 
assure you, that rather than go on living as I’ve 
been living, I’d change places with the between- 
maid in our kitchen. It wasn’t so bad during the 
war. I did nursing then. But now, because I’m 
the only daughter, mother and father won’t 
hear of my taking up any sort of work. I go once 
a week to Bermondsy to teach a class of girls 
hat-trimming, and even that’s frowned upon be- 


MADAME CLAIRE 


205 

cause I once got measles there. No, I’m expected 
to sit with folded hands until some young man 
comes along and marries me. Isn’t it extraordi¬ 
nary, in this day and age?” 

Chip was still speechless. 

‘‘And I’ll go on like this till I die, I suppose, 
or marry somebody out of sheer boredom. And 
I keep asking myself what I ought to do. What 
would some one else do in my place? Should I 
simply walk out of the house, and try to live my 
own life ? But where would I go, and what would 
I do? I’ve no training except nursing, and I 
should hate ordinary, peace-time nursing. And 
would it be fair to my family, who after all have 
spent a great deal of money on me? And each 
year I think, ‘Next year is sure to be different,’ 
but it isn’t. It’s exactly the same, or worse, and 
I’m a year older and have accomplished nothing. 
If it had been my lot to live in the country, I 
expect I would have hunted, or perhaps kept a 

lot of dogs, or looked after a garden. But as 

• • % % 
it is . . . 

She broke off. Captain Stevens descended on 
them to ask her to dance again, but she shook 
her head. 

“I’m not a bit in the mood for it to-night. 


20 6 


MADAME CLAIRE 


Look, the Winslow girls have just come. They’re 
heavenly dancers.” 

Captain Stevens went, after a curious glance 
at Chip. Who was the fellow in the antiquated 
evening clothes, who was so quiet at dinner? A 
“oner” with the ladies, at any rate. 

Judy turned once more to Chip. 

“I’ve been perfectly beastly,” she said. “But 
I feel better for it. And if I’ve destroyed a lot 
of your illusions, I’m sorry, but at least you know 
more of Judy Pendleton than you did.” 

“What you have told me,” he said slowly, 
“has made me feel very sad, for your sake. I 
was so sure you were happy. But for my own 
sake ... I don’t know ... I think it has made 
you seem less terribly remote. I felt before that 
we were in different hemispheres. Now . . . 
well, we at least inhabit the same imperfect planet. 
And it’s a wonderful thing for me to know any 
one like you. To-night has been . . .” 

“I’m so glad if you haven’t minded it. I was 
afraid you’d hate it, or at least be bored.” 

“Bored?” He smiled. 

“I suppose I must have made friends when I 
was young,” he went on. “I remember imagining 
myself in love once or twice, and I was exactly 
like any other young man, no doubt. Then I 
went out to South Africa, and after the war I 


MADAME CLAIRE 207 

came home to find my mother dead. I was very 
ill for a long time, and I got out of the habit of 
seeing people. Then, when my health improved, 
I began to write. Articles; all sorts of things. 
Then I was sent out to India to join my regiment, 
and while I was there I began the book on relig¬ 
ions, but for some years I hardly did more than 
make a beginning. But at last I got so interested 
in it that when I returned from India I left the 
army and went to live in a lonely cottage in Corn¬ 
wall that belonged to my mother. I suppose I 
allowed the book to become an obsession, as Lady 
Gregory said, for I spent weeks—months some¬ 
times—without seeing a soul except the village 
people, and Major Stroud now and then. Then 
the war came, and until 1919 I was in France. 
When I came home, I took the flat in Campden 
Hill. The night . . . the night of the accident, 
Major Stroud had dragged me out to dine at his 
club. I remember he had been lecturing me for 
being such a hermit.” 

“And rightly,” said Judy. 

“Still, I should have gone on being a hermit, 
if you hadn’t come just when you did.” He 
paused. “And yet there are people who deny 
that there’s a benevolent Deity who orders our 
lives.” 

Captain Stevens might have said that and 


208 


MADAME CLAIRE 


meant nothing by it, and if he had said it, Judy 
would have had a retort ready. But coming from 
Chip, it could not be treated so lightly. How 
much, she wondered, did he mean? Oh, he meant 
what he said, of course, but how much did he 
mean her to understand by it? And then she 
realized that had he meant to express more than 
an appreciation of her friendship, he could never 
have said it so easily. 

“Let’s hope your Deity will take an interest 
in the book,” she said, and then was suddenly 
aware that she had spent the greater part of the 
evening talking to Chip. She looked about her. 
Helen and Gordon were dancing. Connie had 
boldly taken the floor with Noel a few minutes 
previously, but was now watching him dance with 
one of the Winslow girls, and Captain Stevens 
was dancing with the other. Millie was nowhere 
to be seen. Not for a moment must Connie be 
allowed to regret that she hadn’t dined with 
Petrovitch. 

“Come and help me amuse my aunt,” said Judy. 
Then, with a sparkle in her eyes, “And if you 
can think of any pretty speeches to make her 
such as you have just made me, so much the 
better.” 




CHAPTER XVIII 



“It won’t be wildly gay,” said Noel as he saw 
Judy off at Victoria Station two days later, “but 
you’ll have sun and a change of scene. Anyhow, 
I have a pretty good hunch that the old boy’s 
going to get better.” 

Judy was talking to him through the window, 
feeling like anybody in the world but Judy Pen¬ 
dleton. She, of all people, to be going to Cannes; 
and alone! Well, nothing ever happened but 
the unexpected, and this was the unexpected in 
one of its pleasantest forms. And if only Noel 
should prove to be right about his “hunch”! . . . 

“He must get better! I should so love to see 
him and Claire hobnobbing together. Write to 
me at least every other day, won’t you? And 
tell me all about Connie and Petrovitch—only I 
hope there won’t be much to tell—and Eric and 
Louise, and-” 

“Anything else?” 

“Yes,” she. said. “Find out what the family 
thought of Chip. I’m longing to know.” 

209 



210 MADAME* CLAIRE 

As the train moved off, he walked beside it for 
a few feet. 

“Oh, by the way, I think IVe got a job.” 

“Noel! Why didn’t you tell me sooner ? What 
is it? Quick!” 

“I’ll write,” he called out. “Not positive yet. 
Good-by!” 

“It’s something that means going away,” 
thought Judy, as she arranged herself and her 
belongings. “That’s why he wouldn’t tell me 
sooner.” 

The thought of it sent her spirits down con¬ 
siderably, but she made up her mind not to bor¬ 
row trouble. If he hadn’t spoken of it before, 
it was because he wasn’t sure. Life without Noel 
would be . . . no, it didn’t bear thinking of. Time 
enough to worry when she heard from him. 
Wasn’t she on her way to the Riviera, for the 
first time? The word had always been a magical 
one, to her. It meant color, warmth, life. She 
would see the Mediterranean. And it was her 
first adventure. Mr. Pendleton had most unex¬ 
pectedly presented her with fifty pounds, telling 
her to buy herself some dresses in Cannes. It was 
very nearly a fortune. Madame Claire herself 
was paying for the trip, and had given her a little 
money to gamble with. 



MADAME CLAIRE 


211 


“For of course you must play,’’ she had said. 
“You’re sure to find friends there; and even if 
Stephen dies—which Heaven forbid!—I don’t 
see why you shouldn’t stay on for a little and 
enjoy yourself.” 

The next day the sight of Marseilles, golden 
in the sunshine, made her forget every trouble, 
past and to come. She had an impression of old 
houses with greeny-blue shutters, and bare plane 
trees, the twisted limbs of which looked white 
and strange in the sunlight. And beyond, the 
incredibly blue water. She could hardly keep her 
delight to herself as the train wound its leisurely 
way along the lovely, broken coast. She gloried 
in the greeny-gray of the olive trees, in the rich, 
red earth, in the burning blue of sea and sky. 

“I should like to live here,” she thought, as 
they passed some blue-shuttered house behind its 
vines and its fig trees. Or, “no, here !” as another 
even more alluring showed itself among its ter¬ 
raced olive groves. She thought, with commisera¬ 
tion, of her parents who might have been there 
too had they cared to make the effort, stuffily 
going their rounds— “It isn’t as though they 
couldn’t afford it,” she said to herself. “I believe 
it’s because they want to save for Gordon.” 

Miss McPherson, a little, calm, thin-lipped 


212 


MADAME CLAIRE 


Scotch woman, met her at the station in Cannes. 
She seemed glad, in her quiet, professional way, 
to see Judy, and as they drove to the hotel in the 
omnibus, she told her about Stephen. 

“It was a slight stroke,” she explained, “but 
we won’t be calling it that because Mr. de Lisle 
doesn’t know, or doesn’t want to know. He will 
have it that it was an attack of some sort. But 
he’s much better to-day, and in a fortnight or so, 
he’ll be as well as he was before. Of course that 
isn’t saying that he’ll be enjoying robust health.” 

“Does that mean that he can never come to 
London?” Judy asked. 

“Oh, dear me, no, I wouldn’t say that. You’ll 
do him good. And I think he’s been here long 
enough.” Then she added with a twinkle in her 
little gray eyes: 

“He was just determined to see you or Colonel 
Gregory. Between you and me, Miss Pendleton, 
my poor old patient’s very bored here.” 

Judy nodded. 

“I see,” she said. “I’m more than ever glad 
that I came. I’m thankful to hear he’s no worse; 
I was afraid of—something really desperate. 
We must amuse him somehow. Doesn’t he ever 
go motoring?” 

The little nurse shook her head. 



MADAME CLAIRE 


213 

“He says it’s so dull with just him and me. 
The poor old gentleman should have had a family. 
It’s dreadful for him being alone. It just takes 
all the heart out of him.” 

“Well, I ’ve come to be the family,” said Judy. 
“Oh, what wonderful palms!” 

They turned into a driveway lined with them, 
and up to the hotel. It was an imposing building, 
dazzling in fresh white paint; and glossy orange 
trees, heavy with ripe fruit, stood on either side 
of the entrance. 

“Mr. de Lisle’s still in bed, of course,” Miss 
McPherson told her, “but you may see him after 
lunch. And I’ve promised him he may go out 
with you in a day or two. In a bath-chair, at 
first.” 

She left Judy to unpack, and have her lunch, 
and hurried back to her patient. 

“I shall get on with her,” Judy said to herself, 
“she’s human.” 

At about half-past two she knocked at Ste¬ 
phen’s door. 

Miss McPherson had told her that he still 
complained of numbness in his legs, so she was 
prepared for the sight of the long, gaunt figure 
stretched out so inertly on a bed near the window. 
His head was turned her way, and as he held out 


214 MADAME CLAIRE 

a long arm, a pair of searching, sunken eyes met 
hers. 

“Judy! Good girl, good girl!” he cried. “I 
meant to turn my face to the wall if you didn’t 
come. Miss McPherson, place her chair a little 
nearer. That’s it. Judy, Judy!” 

“You’re exactly the same ‘Old Stephen’ I re¬ 
member,” said Judy, unexpectedly moved at this 
meeting, “only gray instead of iron-gray.” It 
was silly to feel tearful. “Do—do I look a bit 
as you thought I’d look?” 

He answered in a lower voice, still holding her 
hand in a grip of surprising strength: 

“You’re like your grandmother, thank God! 
I prayed that you might be. It’s the eyes, I think 
—yes, it’s the eyes and expression. I can build 
her up, around your eyes. You always promised 
to be a little like her. Ah, my dear, my dear, it 
was good of you to come!” 

“Good of me! You little know what you saved 
me from!” 

“Saved you from?” 

“Yes. You—I was simply desperate. I’d 
begun to hate myself and every one else, except 
Madame Claire and Noel.” 

“Madame Claire,” he repeated. “Yes, I like 
that. And what then?” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


215 

“I was longing to get away. You see I haven’t 
been out of England since I was sixteen. Except 
to Scotland, and I don’t count that. And I felt— 
stale. You’ve saved my life, I think, and now 
you say I’m going to save yours. . . . We’ll have 
a wonderful time, won’t we, Miss McPherson?” 

“It will be very nice,” said she. 

“Miss McPherson tells me you’ll be out in a 
day or two,” Judy went on. “I’m looking for¬ 
ward to the day when we can go motoring. There 
must be glorious trips to be taken.” 

He turned his eyes toward his nurse. 

“What else did you tell her?” he demanded. 

“Everything I thought necessary.” She pressed 
her lips together but her eyes smiled. 

“I thought you were Scotch enough to keep a 
secret.” 

“I can keep them when I choose.” 

“Judy,” Stephen said, “I’m not as bad as I 
pretended I was. I had a stroke. Yes, you 
needn’t jump, you over there. Thought I didn’t 
know, I suppose. Pish! Of course I knew. It 
wasn’t a bad one, Judy, but I knew it meant no 
London for me for weeks, perhaps months. So 
I made up my mind I was going to have you or 
Eric. You, preferably. Something Claire said 
made me think you might welcome a change just 


216 MADAME CLAIRE 

now, so I made Miss McPherson wire. And now 
you know.” 

“You are even nicer than I thought you were,” 
laughed Judy. “And what about Madame Claire? 
Does she know too, that you’re not—seriously 
ill?” 

He moved his head slightly. 

“She knows.” He smiled, and Judy noticed 
how his smile lightened his face with its rather 
tragic lines and hollows. “She said nothing but 
sudden death or an earthquake would get you 
away from your family. But I’ve been pretty bad. 
Even Miss McPherson admits that. Very bad. 
And,” he said, glowering into the corner where 
Miss McPherson sat, “I may be worse.” 

“Well, you won’t be while Miss Pendleton’s 
here,” said she, “so I’ll just be taking a little air. 
With your permission.” 

“Bless you, run along! Poor child, she’s 
hardly left me for a minute.” 

As Miss McPherson went out, he watched her 
upright little figure affectionately, from under his 
strikingly white eyebrows. 

“A plucky little soul,” he said, “and she has 
borne with me wonderfully. Now, Judy, tell me 
about your trip. Tell me about Claire, everything 


MADAME CLAIRE 


217 

you can think of, and about Noel and Eric. Good 
Lord, how good this is I” 

Judy sat and talked till the sky turned from 
blue to deep orange, and the sun, long after it 
had dropped behind the sea, sent beams like yel¬ 
low fingers raying up into the clear color its own 
going had made; till the lovely Esterel Moun¬ 
tains had grown warmly, richly purple—a purple 
that seemed mixed with gold dust, and the palms, 
untamed things that they are, made wild and 
ragged silhouettes against the sunset. 

At half-past four a waiter brought in tea, and 
Miss McPherson, with color in her cheeks, came 
in to officiate. Judy had talked herself out for 
the present, so left the conversation to the other 
two, who sparred in what appeared to be their 
customary way. She watched the sky deepen to 
the larkspur blue of night, and saw the lights 
come pricking out in the harbor, and heard the 
yacht bells and far-off voices, and knew that she 
was very content. 

As for Stephen, he took her hand for an instant 
as she was about to go to her room to rest before 
dressing for dinner, and said: 

“Bless you, Judy! I haven’t been as happy as 
this for over twenty years!” 

>(; iff sfc Jjs 


MADAME CLAIRE 


218 

“Could anything be lovelier?” thought Judy as 
she stood at her window the next morning. The 
wailing pipe of some street peddler had waked 
her earlier—a weird, Oriental sound, pleasant to 
open one’s eyes to. She looked out over crooked 
red roofs and beyond them to gray-green hills, 
while below, to her left, the white yachts rode in 
the harbor—the calm blue surface of which was 
unmoved by a single ripple—beside less aristo¬ 
cratic but more picturesque craft with pointed, 
dark red sails. 

The waiter had brought her her breakfast in 
bed, but she had carried it to a table by the 
window, and was having it there. A few mo¬ 
ments later the postman walked in—the casual 
way people walked in and out of her room she 
thought novel and charming—and handed her a 
letter from Madame Claire, which was dated the 
same day she left London. 

“Dearest Judy,” wrote Madame Claire, 

“This is just to reassure you, and explain 
a little. Stephen isn’t dangerously ill, thank 
Heaven! I expect you’ve discovered that by now. 
But he had a slight stroke, and was lonely and 
bored, poor old dear, and as I couldn’t go to 
him, he wanted you. I’ve been trying to persuade 


MADAME CLAIRE 219 

Millie for some time to let you go away some¬ 
where, hut she wouldn’t hear of it. Your health 
was quite satisfactory, etc., etc. So I saw my 
chance and took it. I know Stephen will take a 
new lease of life with you there. Have the very 
happiest time possible, and don’t worry about 
anything. I will be thinking of you in the sun. 
I imagine almost that I can feel the warmth of 
it myself; but perhaps it’s only my hot water 
bottle. I am writing this in bed, my rheumatism 
being still a little troublesome. However, I am 
reading some delightful books. 

u Best love, dear Judy, from 

“Claire.” 

That wonderful old woman! Judy knew that 
she, from her two rooms at the Kensington Park 
Hotel, had more influence on her life than any 
one else in it. More even than Noel. 

Stephen was getting better slowly and with 
patient determination, but although she could see 
an improvement in him from day to day, it was 
not until the fifth day of her stay that he was 
considered well enough to go out in a bath-chair 
—a vehicle he despised. His detestation of it 
was somewhat mitigated by the fact that Judy 


220 


MADAME CLAIRE 


was walking beside it, and he was persuaded, be¬ 
fore they had been out very long, to admit that 
he was enjoying it. They went past the Casino 
as far as the harbor, which seemed to Judy more 
Italian than French, and they walked under the 
weird maze made by the tortured gray branches 
of the plane trees, that reminded her of some¬ 
thing in Dante’s Inferno; then to the market place 
where she bought persimmons bursting with over¬ 
ripeness, and ate them then and there, ruining her 
handkerchief. Stephen bought flowers, and chat¬ 
ted in his excellent French with the brown-faced 
peasant women who sold them. They walked 
along the front again as far as La Reserve, where 
he promised to take her for lobsters as soon as he 
was well enough. Handsome cars flashed past 
them and Judy had just said, “I didn’t know the 
Rolls-Royce was a hibernating bird,” when a par¬ 
ticularly fine one went slowly by. She saw a man’s 
face looking back at them through the little win¬ 
dow at the rear, and in another second the car 
stopped and began backing. 

“Who’s that?” asked Stephen gruffly. He dis¬ 
liked bothering with people he knew only slightly, 
and it annoyed him to have people continually 
asking him how he was. 

A man got out of the car and walked toward 


MADAME CLAIRE 


221 


them—a strange figure in the sunlight. He gave 
the impression of heaviness and at the same time 
of agility. His movements were quick and force¬ 
ful. He wore a shapeless black overcoat—a hid¬ 
eous enough garment at any time—but there, in 
the gold light of the southern sun, it seemed to 
cast a Philistine gloom all about it. He would 
have passed unnoticed in Wall Street or the City, 
but on the Riviera in his bowler hat and his dark 
clothes, Judy thought he insulted the day. 

He went straight to Stephen, and the moment 
he spoke, Judy knew he was an American. 

“May I recall myself to your memory, sir?” 
he inquired, aware that he was not immediately 
recognized. “I am Whitman Colebridge, whom 
you last knew out in the Argentine.” 

“Whitman Colebridge! Of course, of course 1 ” 
exclaimed Stephen with some geniality. “Well, 
well! That’s more years ago than I like to re¬ 
member.” 

“It’s a good spell,” agreed the other. “But I 
never forget a face or a name, once I’ve known 
them both pretty well. I’m glad of an oppor¬ 
tunity of renewing our acquaintance. You were 
very good to the young man I was then, sir.” 

“Was I? Was I indeed? That seems to have 
slipped my memory. But I am delighted to hear 


222 MADAME CLAIRE 

it. Judy, my dear, allow me to introduce quite 
an old friend, Mr. Whitman Colebridge, of . . . 
of . . . wait!” He held up a thin hand, smiling. 
“Of Cincinnati.” 

“Now that’s pretty smart of you, sir, to remem¬ 
ber that,” exclaimed the younger man, who had 
shaken hands strongly with Judy. 

“I don’t know why it is,” Stephen remarked to 
Judy, “but in America it’s always ‘Mr. Jones of 
St. Louis,’ or ‘Mr. Smith of Council Bluffs,’ or 
Mr. Robinson of Denver.’ One learns to associ¬ 
ate the name with the place.” 

“Which shows,” suggested Judy, “that a love 
of titles still lingers in the Republican breast.” 

“That’s so, I expect,” smiled Mr. Colebridge, 
in whose eyes Judy, it seemed, had immediately 
found favor. “But what about this old-fashioned 
vehicle of yours? This doesn’t signify that you’re 
an invalid, I trust?” 

“I’ve been a miserable, good-for-nothing old 
man for some time,” Stephen answered, “with 
most of Job’s ailments, but without his virtues. 
Now, however, since Miss Pendleton of London 
has come to lighten my darkness, I mean to get 
well. Yes, distinctly I mean to get well.” 

“That’s fine!” approved Mr. Colebridge. 
“This one-man Victoria that you’ve got here 


MADAME CLAIRE 


223 

doesn’t look good to me. I haven’t forgotten 
our trip over the Andes together, sir.” 

“Ah!” agreed Stephen, nodding. “That was 
a trip ! Pleasant to look back upon.” 

“Never mind,” said Judy, “we’ll take a trip 
over the Esterel Mountains in a day or two. Mr. 
de Lisle hasn’t been out of Cannes since he first 
came here,” she told Mr. Colebridge, “but we’re 
planning some trips for next week.” 

“You have your own automobile here?” in¬ 
quired Mr. Colebridge. 

“No, no,” Stephen said. “We mean to hire 
one.” 

“But why do that, sir? Here is mine”—he 
waved his hand toward his property—“at your 
disposal. The chauffeur is a native of these parts, 
and I needn’t brag about the machine because 
you are well acquainted with its virtues. So why 
not make use of it, with or without its owner?” 

“Oh, that’s very kind,” said Stephen, “but 
really . . . no, no, we couldn’t think of it. I 
don’t see why you should burden yourself with 
an irascible invalid. Do you, Judy?” 

“Perhaps Mr. Colebridge will take us out some 
day, and see how he likes us,” said Judy, who 
wasn’t at all sure that she liked Mr. Colebridge. 


224 


MADAME CLAIRE 


“But we certainly couldn’t commandeer your car, 
as you so kindly suggest.” 

“I’m here alone,” said Mr. Colebridge, “the 
machine holds seven, and I don’t talk French. 
So you’d be doing me a real kindness. I’m stay¬ 
ing at the Hotel Beaulieu. May I ask where 
you-?” 

“We’re stopping at the Riviera,” Stephen told 
him. “Come and see us.” 

“I shall avail myself of your kind invitation. 
I presume you play, Miss Pendleton?” 

“Play? Oh, the Casino? I haven’t been yet, 
but I mean to go, when Mr. de Lisle is better. 
I’ve never gambled and I’m longing to.” 

“I go there every night,” said the heavy one. 
“I flatter myself I know the game, sir. When 
I’m ahead I quit. And I generally quit ahead.” 
He clapped his hand to his pocket, and then felt 
inside his coat. Judy expected bank notes to 
appear, but instead he produced a gold cigar case. 

“Will you smoke, sir? I reckon these are 
superior to what you can obtain hereabouts.” 

The old man waved them away. 

“If they were made on Olympus for Jove him¬ 
self, I couldn’t smoke one,” he said. 

“Too bad!” commiserated the other, taking 



MADAME CLAIRE 


225 

one himself. “You used to be fond of a good 
cigar in the old days, sir.” 

“Fond!” exclaimed Stephen. “Do you call 
that fond! I’d sell my immortal soul for one now, 
if it weren’t for my doctor.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Colebridge, turning to Judy, 
“I mustn’t detain you. It’s been a real pleasure 
to meet you, Miss Pendleton, and to see you again, 
sir. Suppose I come around Monday, and take 
you both to Grasse? That’s just a pleasant, easy 
little run. Say about two-thirty. I hope you will 
do me the honor, Miss Pendleton.” 

There seemed no reason to refuse. 

“If Mr. de Lisle’s well enough—and I feel sure 
he will be,” she said, shaking Mr. Colebridge’s 
proffered hand. “It’s very kind of you.” 

“On Monday, then. I shall look forward to 
that with real pleasure.” 

They watched him, his long black cigar in his 
mouth, get into his beautiful car again and go 
smoothly off. 

“Well, well!” said Stephen. “That’s an odd 
thing! I haven’t thought of that fellow for over 
ten years.” 

“Tell me about him. What is he? One of 
the ‘Captains of Industry’?” 


226 


MADAME CLAIRE 


“Something of that sort, I expect. We met 
in the Argentine.” 

“Don’t tell me he was there on a holiday! 
That man never took a holiday in his life. Did 
you ever see such clothes? He looked as though 
he was on his way to a directors’ meeting.” 

“He was just a younger edition in those days 
of what he is now. He told me, I remember, 
that he was the forerunner of ‘big business.’ 
Connected with some great exporting house, I 
think. Details have left my mind. But he im¬ 
pressed me. Kind, full of bluff, pushing, selfish, 
likable. No real humor. Oh, he can see a joke, 
but that doesn’t always mean humor. No philos¬ 
ophy of life—yet. No sense of values. Values, 
yes! It’s an interesting type. Egotistic. But 
powerful. I knew he’d get on. We had some 
long talks, I remember. He liked me for some 
reason. I was able to do him a good turn, I 
think, but I forget what it was.” 

“His aesthetic or beauty-loving side is utterly 
undeveloped,” laughed Judy. “Hence those 
clothes. He’s rather terrible in a way, and yet 
I dare say I might like him if I knew him better.” 

“You might,” mused Stephen, “you might.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


“Dearest Claire,” wrote Judy. 

“Every moment that I spend here in this 
lovely place, I say to myself, ‘You have Claire 
to thank for this.* I know now how cleverly 
you managed it all. A hint here, a word there. 
And I know that you never intended to let Eric 
come, even if he could have arranged it. That 
was merely to satisfy the family. Oh, I know 
your little ways! 

“As for your old Stephen, I adore him. And 
he’s really making a wonderful recovery. Ell 
bring him back to you, Claire. My one object in 
life now is to help to bring you and him together 
again. 

“I wonder if you’ve seen Major Crosby again? 
I do hope you have, for I feel you’d be so good 
for him, and it’s absurd for him to be so out of 
touch with things. I know you like him and I’m 
very glad, for I like him, and I know Noel does 
too. I don’t suppose for a moment that he’ll 
ever be anything but poor. Even if his book 
should prove to be a classic, it would never bring 


227 




228 


MADAME CLAIRE 


him in much money. All the same I feel sure 
that it y s a remarkable book. 

“There is a man here who is the very opposite 
of Major Crosby. I feel they can hardly be made 
of the same stuff. This man is an American whom 
Stephen knew years ago in the Argentine. He y s 
very rich, and not afflicted with modesty. He has 
no moods, no reserves, and no curiosity. I never 
realized before what an agreeable quality curios¬ 
ity was until I met him. Europe is a playground 
for him. Not that he knows liow to play—he 
doesn 1 1 . He merely does what other people do . 
and spends prodigious sums of money, and when 
he tries to be gay or facetious it y s like watching a 
steam engine playing with its tail. We spar a 
good deal, but he seems to like it. He makes me 
ponderous compliments — oh, so ponderous! I 
tell him I y m not used to compliments, and that in 
England the more we approve of people the less 
we trouble to let them know it, and that the only 
person who sometimes tells me Fm rather nice is 
my brother Noel. 

“ ( Say, y remarks Mr. Colebridge, ( that brother 
of yours must be kinder human ! 1 

“Mr. and Mrs. Assheton are here and they 
chaperon me at the Casino evenings after Stephen 


MADAME CLAIRE 


229 

has gone to bed. We usually make a foursome, 
for Mr. Colebridge nearly always joins us” 

“You don’t know how much I’m enjoying it 
all, Claire. I think I must have died and gone 
to Heaven. Certainly the Channel wasn’t unlike 
the Styx. I feel all the time though that it’s you 
who ought to be here with Stephen instead of me. 
But he’s going to get well, and you’re going to 
see him again. Miss McPherson is a dear. I 
gathered that she was from Stephen’s letters. 

“How are Eric and Louise getting on? But 
I expect Noel will tell me all the news. You have 
all you can do to keep Stephen supplied with 
letters. 

“Good-by, Madame Claire. Remember me to 
your daughter Millie when you see her. Really, 
mother took my coming here as a personal affront. 
She thinks that no one but Gordon should have 
any advantages. Aren’t some parents odd, some¬ 
times? 

“Your very loving, 

“Judy.” 

Very satisfactory, thought Madame Claire, as 
she finished reading the letter. All sorts of ends 
were furthered by this visit. Stephen would take 
a new lease on life with Judy there. It was 


MADAME CLAIRE 


230 

just the tonic that he needed. He would be cer¬ 
tain to want to settle something on her. If he 
had wished to before he knew her, how much 
more would he now! She would, more or less 
unconsciously, present her own image to him, as 
she was to-day. Heaven alone knew how he had 
been picturing her all these years! And, too, 
Judy would meet—was meeting—new people. 
She already had an admirer. Madame Claire 
was no matchmaker; she abhorred matchmaking; 
but she knew that Judy was interested in Major 
Crosby and it would help her to know how deeply 
she was interested if she could compare him with 
other men. This Mr. Colebridge—he wasn’t at 
all Judy’s sort, perhaps—and yet he might attract 
her by his very differences. Or, if he failed to 
attract her, he might help her to define her feel¬ 
ings for the other more clearly. 

Madame Claire was no advocate of marriage 
as the only career for women, but Judy’s gifts 
seemed all to be in that direction. She had charm, 
tact, good sense. Her other qualities would 
emerge once she was away from the suffocating 
atmosphere of Eaton Square and Millie. She had 
never had a chance. Not that marriage with 
Major Crosby, for instance, would offer much 
scope for her talents . . . and yet, on the other 


MADAME CLAIRE 


231 

hand, it might ... it might. Well, well, Ma¬ 
dame Claire told herself, she wouldn’t raise a 
finger to bring it about. But she meant the girl 
to have a breathing space . . . time to think, and 
a new environment to think in. If she herself 
had had that at a certain period of her own 
life. . . . 

She was expecting Eric this afternoon between 
five and six. Eric and Louise . . . there was 
a problem for her untangling! Two charming 
people—for Louise could be charming—who were 
at heart fond of each other, and yet were utterly 
at cross purposes. Madame Claire held the re¬ 
markable belief that no problem existed without 
its solution—however difficult that solution might 
be to come by—just as she believed that every 
poison had its antidote, and every evil its com¬ 
plementary good. Why, then, couldn’t she think 
of a way to bring those two together? Louise’s 
mind wanted prying open. It had closed on its 
jealousies as a pitcher plant closes on its food. 
Nothing that was in could get out, and nothing 
that was out could get in. An unfortunate state 
of affairs! 

Eric came in bringing with him something 
fresh and vital that always seemed to accompany 
him. Judy called it his aura. He was quick in 


MADAME CLAIRE 


232 

all his movements—the sort of man who gets 
through a great deal in a day and without fuss 
or bustle. 

He advanced on Madame Claire and kissed 
her. 

“You look wonderful! I’ve half an hour to 
spend with you to-day.” 

He drew up a chair beside hers. 

“Don’t you get very tired of being always 
busy?” she asked him, smiling. 

“Yes. I do. But I must either be in the thick 
of things or out of them altogether. And just 
now things are very thick indeed, and getting 
thicker.” 

“I really enjoy being outside,” she said. “One 
sees so much better.” 

“But are you outside?” He looked narrowly 
at her with humorous, quizzical eyes. “Are you? 
I never knew you to be, puller of many threads!” 

She laughed. 

“Oh, I give a feeble jerk now and then. It’s 
all I can do. Tell me about Louise. I haven’t 
seen her for a week or more.” 

“About Louise? But, my dear mother, if I 
once start talking about Louise . . .” 

“Yes? Well, why not? What am I here for? 
Is there any . . . improvement, do you think?” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


233 

“Improvement? Let me tell you, then. 
You’ve brought it on yourself. I warned you.” 
He laughed. “I’ll tell you about last night. Last 
night we had Sir Henry Boyle-Stevens to dinner, 
and Mr. Stedman. About halfway through din¬ 
ner Sir Henry said to Louise, but looking at me 
and smiling, ‘It’s a great comfort to me to be 
working with your husband. He is untiring and 
dependable.’ Old Sir Henry does like me, and 
we’ve always got on together like anything. 
Would you like to hear what Louise said in reply? 
Would you? Very well. She said—I will give 
you her exact words and their emphasis—‘I sup¬ 
pose Eric is dependable, politically / ‘I suppose,’ 
you observe, and then the accent on ‘politically.’ 
Sir Henry looked quickly at her, and then at me, 
and changed the subject. She meant me to hear. 
Then the next thing. After dinner the Lewis 
Pringles came in. We were still in the dining 
room—the men, I mean—and when we joined the 
rest in the drawing-room Louise greeted me with 
these words—for my ears alone—‘You needn’t 
have hurried, Eric. I was just enjoying hearing 
my own voice for a change.’ You ask me if 
there’s any improvement! What am I to do? 
We can’t go on like this much longer.” 

“No. And I don’t think you ought to.” 


i 


MADAME CLAIRE 


234 

He flung himself back into his chair. 

“Why does she live in my house if she dislikes 
me as much as that?” 

“She doesn’t dislike you, my dear. It’s an 
extraordinary nature. Do you remember the un¬ 
fortunate girl in the fairy tale? Every time she 
opened her mouth toads and snails and other 
horrid things came out of it. Well, that’s Louise. 
That old hag jealousy has bewitched her. She’s 
not happy, poor thing.” 

“I don’t suppose she is happy. I don’t see how 
she can be. But I can’t make her happy, and she 
can’t help making me miserable. I can’t even 
ignore her.” 

“Try living apart for six months.” 

“She suggested that herself. Of course she 
expects me to go down on my knees and beg her 
to stay.” 

“Don’t you do it! Let her go. Make her go. 
Give it out to your friends that the doctor says 
she must live in the country for a while. Insist 
on her going.” 

“And who would look after the house ? I could 
shut it up I suppose and go to a hotel.” 

“No, no. Don’t do that. I’ll find some one,” 
said Madame Claire. “You leave that to me.” 

“You mean a housekeeper?” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


235 

“I don’t know, at the moment. I’ll think of 
somebody.” 

“Louise may not come back,” he said. 

“Of course she’ll come back. She has no in¬ 
tention of letting any other woman have you. 
You’ll see . . . only you must see that she stays 
away six months this time. That last visit to 
Mistley wasn’t long enough.” 

“I think you understand her better than I do.” 

“Oh, I do understand her. That’s the curious 
thing about it. But it always seems to me that 
odd people are much easier to understand than 
simple people. Once you give people credit for 
being odd, nothing that they do surprises you. 
What’s so difficult is to give people credit for 
being simple. Now if Louise would only under¬ 
stand that you are very simple-” 

“Ami?” 

“Very. You’re one of the least complex people 
I’ve ever known. None of my children are com¬ 
plex. Not even Connie, who thinks she is. By 
the way, have you seen her lately?” 

“Not for several days. I called at her hotel 
just before coming here, but she was out.” 

“Yes, didn’t you know? This is the afternoon 
of Petrovitch’s concert. She’s there, with Noel.” 

“Ah! Feasting her eyes and ears.” 



MADAME CLAIRE 


236 

“You’d better stay and hear Noel’s account of 
it.” She looked at her watch. “He promised 
he’d come in afterwards. I’m glad he took her. 
It will be an outlet for her emotions. The papers 
just hint that Petrovitch is on the downward 
grade, Eric. Not the master that he was. He’s 
not very young, you know.” 

“I suppose not. He wasn’t a young man when 
she first knew him. But if the world were to re¬ 
ject and despise him, Connie would cling to him 
all the more. So there’s no hope in that direc¬ 
tion.” 

“Oh, yes,” agreed Madame Claire. “She’d 
pride herself on it.” 

They talked for nearly half an hour, and Eric 
was about to go when Dawson opened the door 
to announce “Master Noel.” 

“Hello!” exclaimed Noel. “Two birds with 
one stone. That’s splendid. Greetings, Claire. 
I’m bursting with talk. How are you, Eric?” 

“We’re bursting to hear you talk,” Madame 
Claire told him. “Sit down and tell us all 
about it.” 

“Whew!” Noel stretched himself out in a 
chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “I 
feel a bit of a rag. Concerts always make me 


MADAME CLAIRE 


237 

feel like that, but this one was rather more ex¬ 
hausting than usual.” 

“Was it a good concert?” 

“Well, of course I’m no musician, but it seemed 
all right to me. Several thousand people had 
come to hear the lion roar, and they all seemed 
pleased with his roaring. But first of all, I wish 
you could have seen Connie, complete with dark 
shadows under her eyes, large black hat and a 
bunch of gardenias. Petrovitch saw her at once 
—we had seats almost under the piano—and they 
exchanged soul to soul looks. And then he sat 
down to play. Gosh, the fellow can play! He 
even had me spellbound. As for Connie—but I 
leave that to your imagination. I’ll bet Petro¬ 
vitch played as never before. Sees nephew sit¬ 
ting beside beautiful aunt. Tries to charm aunt 
away from nephew. Does so—or jolly near it. 
Connie sat there with her soul in her eyes. I’m 
sorry to have to mention souls so often, but the 
narrative seems to require it. Well, I wish you 
could have heard the applause. People stood up 
and clapped and clapped and clapped. The gal¬ 
lery yelled and shouted. Illiodor—that’s his un- 
Christian name—tore off two or three encores 
and bowed and bowed, and then gazed at Connie 
and bowed some more, and then finally came back 


MADAME CLAIRE 


238 

and played something very tender—you know the 
sort of thing—a fragment, a thought, a tear— 
and then gazed some more at Connie and that was 
the end of it. I sat there feeling proud all the 
time. Proprietary, I suppose you’d call it. Some¬ 
thing like this: ‘You like it? Good. Oh, yes, in 
a way he’s one of the family. Fellow my aunt 
ran off with. Quite one of the family.’ ” 

“How absurd you are, Noel!” laughed Ma¬ 
dame Claire. 

“And then what happened?” asked Eric. 

“Well, we got out finally and headed for home. 
Connie hung on my arm like a wilted flower, and 
I can tell you, she’s no light weight. I couldn’t 
possibly put her in a ’bus in the state she was in— 
I have some sense of the fitness of things—so we 
took a taxi and she sat in it with her hands clasped 
and her eyes fixed before her, murmuring, 
‘Wasn’t he divine, divine!’ I felt that the situa¬ 
tion was becoming a bit too tense, so I said, ‘Yes, 
he’s all right, but I think Grock’s more amusing.’ 
But it didn’t annoy her a bit. She just kept on 
rocking herself and murmuring, ‘Divine, divine!’ ” 

“Did you leave her in that state?” Eric in¬ 
quired. 

“Oh, she won’t recover for several days. When 
we got back to the hotel she thanked me as if I’d 


MADAME CLAIRE 


239 

saved her from drowning—I didn’t tell her it was 
all your idea, Claire—and said she’d carry the 
memory of that afternoon in her heart forever. 
I wonder? I’m pretty sure she will see him, or 
write to him. But there’s one thing about Connie 
—she’s honest. She won’t see him and not tell 
me. I can trust her for that.” 

Later on the conversation turned on Major 
Crosby. Madame Claire asked Noel if he had 
seen him. 

“Oh, about that,” said Noel. “I went to see 
his doctor . . . the nice old fellow who came 
in that night; and I asked him to please send the 
bill to me. ‘Bill?’ he said. ‘What bill?’ When 
I said ‘Major Crosby’s,’ he clapped me on the 
back and said, ‘I don’t send bills to the man who 
risked his life to get my son out of a shell-hole, 
under fire.’ So now we know. He seems to 
think the world of Chip.” 

“Ah,” said Madame Claire. “Yes, gallant. 
. . . I knew that. I hope he comes to see me.” 

“He said he meant to when I saw him last.” 

“I seem to be the only one of the family who 
hasn’t met him,” said Eric. “What do the others 
think of him?” 

“Well,” Noel told him, “Gordon didn’t think 
anything—or anyhow, didn’t say. Helen liked 


MADAME CLAIRE 


240 

him—she’s a good sort when she wants to be, and 
talks about having him meet influential people— 
publishers, I suppose she means. Mother said 
he wasn’t connected with any Crosbys she ever 
heard of, and dad looked him up in Who's 
Who? and not finding him asked me how long 
I’d known him and what clubs he belonged to. 
Connie thinks he’s quite charming, but doesn’t 
understand women! Yes, I thought you’d smile. 
But what I want to know is, what does Judy think 
of him?” 

“She’s rather interested,” said Madame Claire. 
“What do you think of him yourself, Noel?” 
“One of the decentest fellows I ever knew.” 
“But hasn’t a bob, I understand,” remarked 
Eric. “Judy’s a brave girl if she doesn’t funk it. 
If only she had something of her own. . . 
Madame Claire nodded. 

“Yes, that would make all the difference. How¬ 
ever, I’m certain nothing’s been said, and I rather 
think nothing will be said, unless . . .” But she 
changed her mind about finishing her sentence. 

“And what’s your own news, Noel?” asked 
Eric. “Have you settled everything with Teal, 
about going to Germany?” 

“Yes, thanks to you. Reparations Committee. 
And I haven’t spoken a word of German, except 


MADAME CLAIRE 


241 


to Hun prisoners during the war, since I was at 
school. I don’t think it’s my line, but the screw’s 
fair, and it ought to be interesting, and besides, 
there aren’t too many things going for a pore 
cripple. I like Cecil Teal, in spite of his name.” 

“When do you go?” Madame Claire asked. 

“In three w r eeks. Do you think Judy’ll be 
back?” 

“I’m certain she’ll come back.” 

“That’s all right, then. Well, I must be off. 
Coming my way, Eric? I’m going to the club.” 

As they were leaving, Madame Claire called 
Noel back. 

“Noel, tell Connie that I want to see her to¬ 
morrow or the next day. As soon as she’s re¬ 
covered. And, Eric, you’ll let me know about 
Louise, won’t you? She’s not to go without say¬ 
ing good-by to me ... if she does go.” 

“Oh, she’s going,” he said. “My wife,” he 
explained, turning to Noel, “finds life with me in¬ 
tolerable.” 

“Well, there’s divorce, thank Heaven!” Noel 
said. “I always feel about marriage and divorce 
the way I feel about those illuminated signs in 
theaters—the exits, you know, in case of fire. One 
simply wouldn’t go into a theater unless they 
were there.” 



242 


MADAME CLAIRE 


“In this case, however,” said Madame Claire, 
“there isn’t going to be a fire, and Eric’s only 
seen the first act of the play. Good night, my 
dears.” 


CHAPTER XX 


Judy’s letter was followed by one from Stephen. 
Madame Claire felt that it was from some one 
very close at hand. He seemed to be coming 
nearer to her daily, and she no longer visualized 
him as separated from her by so many miles of 
land and water. He was accessible now. They 
were more readily accessible to each other by 
thoughts. She felt more confidence in his health, 
too, and in his determination to come to England 
again. She had been wise in sending Judy to him! 

“Its amazing” Stephen wrote, “how much 
there is of you in Judy. She has your way of 
understanding what one wants to say almost be¬ 
fore one has said it. She doesn’t make me feel 
an old man. We talk as equals. She is very 
human and is gifted with real humor, which means 
that she enjoys the humorous side of mankind. I 
think that her not very happy youth—for it’s 
obvious that she has been far from happy at home 
—has given her a certain depth and insight. 

“She is much amused by an old friend of mine, 


243 


244 


MADAME CLAIRE 


an American named Colebridge. We met years 
ago in the Argentine, and he considers that he has 
reason to he grateful for something in the past. 
Together, the two are a source of great enter¬ 
tainment to me. Judy becomes every moment 
more British, and he — well, he couldn } t become 
more American. He admires Judy enormously, 
and I think he is ready to lay a not inconsiderable 
fortune at her feet. I wish I could remember 
their talk. Yesterday we motored to Grasse, and * 
coming home we passed peasants returning from 
their work in the fields. Simple, contented 
people, with clothes colored like the earth. 

“ ( In America,’ says Mr. Colebridge, ‘all these 
folks would own FordsJ 

“ ‘Then thank God for Europe!’ says Judy; 
and so they go on, until at last Mr. Colebridge 
turns to me and says, ‘Say, I guess I’m ready to 
agree to anything Miss Pendleton says. She’s 
got more sense than any woman I ever met / 
Which takes the wind out of Judy’s sails. They 
make me feel years younger. Colebridge wears 
the most Philistine clothes, and never looks at 
the scenery. He sees nothing. 

“Judy often goes to the Casino, and she tells 
me she saw Chiozzi there last night. He was 
with Mile. Pauline, whom Judy describes as a 


MADAME CLAIRE 


245 

most exquisite creature. She was struck with the 
contrast between them—Chiozzi so dark and 
hideous, and the woman so fair and pretty—and 
she asked some one who they were. She says 
Chiozzi is extremely jealous and was constantly 
watching his companion. She also says that he 
was losing a great deal of money — Connie’s 
money, perhaps?—at the tables. He has left 
this hotel, so I never see him now. 

“Miss McPherson seems to think I will be able 
to travel in less than a month. A month, Claire! 
Only thirty days. It’s nothing. And yet, it’s an 
eternity. I might have another stroke — no, no! 
I feel sure I won’t. Not with Judy here. I think 
it was sheer boredom that brought it on before. 
That, and a hopeless feeling that I should never 
quite reach you. Now I seem to have accom¬ 
plished half the journey. 

“I have said nothing to Judy as yet about a 
settlement. It is a difficult subject, and I feel f 
must tread lightly. All the same, I mean to have 
my way. If the young deny us these pleasures, 
what is left for us? Of course, if she were to 
marry Colebridge she wouldn’t want it, but that 
I feel almost certain she will not do. They are 
poles apart. It’s not because of their nationality 4 
It’s because of their outlook on life. It wouldn’t 



MADAME CLAIRE 


246 

do. If Judy were less sensitive, less feeling, less 
intelligent, it might. 

“Well, I am aweary of this eternal sunshine. 
And when the sun does not shine, it all seems very 
drab. One is constantly reminded here of too 
much that is rich—and gross. And yet it is lovely, 
I suppose, very lovely. 

“It's you I want, Claire, and London. For 
the first time in my life Fm unspeakably, unutter¬ 
ably homesick. I long to see the rain on London 
streets, the lamps’ yellow eyes through the deep 
blue haze and smoke. I want crocuses and prim¬ 
roses instead of mimosa. I want little, homely, 
decorous shops, and people who put on their 
clothes merely to cover them and to keep warm. 
I want your fireside and you and Dawson, and 
crumpets for tea. What an old fool I am! I 
would like to hear the old talk of the London 
that I knew; these memoirs, that play, such and 
such a speech; what So and So said to Blank when 
he met hi?n in the lobby of the House; who is 
talked of as the next Speaker. I hardly dare look 
at the papers, Claire, for then I know how many 
years there are between the old talk and the talk 
of to-day. The jingle of hansom bells seem to 
run through it all, and faint, forgotten old tunes. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


247 

“But it will all be preserved, summed up, epit¬ 
omized in you. I will find it all again in you. 

“It is Judy who has brought back this love of 
London. It is she who has made it fresh again . 

“She says your hair is perfectly white. How 
pretty it must be! 

“Good-by! I grow verbose, lachrymose, and 
comatose . 

“Stephen.” 

Well, he would find London changed, though 
it had changed less than most Western cities. 
But he would find that it had retained its old 
character even though it had assumed new man¬ 
ners. And after all, why pretend that it had not 
improved? It had improved. It was easier to 
get about now than it had been in Stephen’s day. 
There was more to do. There was less misery 
among the poor. One needn’t feel so suicidal 
on Sundays. There were better shops, better 
libraries, and—yes—more and better books. Bet¬ 
ter preachers in the pulpits, too, better food, 
better music, better teachers in the schools. And 
if one regretted the hansom bells and the old 
tunes, that was because one regretted one’s youth, 
and the friends of one’s youth. But the present 
couldn’t be blamed for that. The present was 


MADAME CLAIRE 


248 

full of promise, let the old fogies say what they 
pleased. The sea was rougher, perhaps, but the 
port was nearer . . . and after all, seasickness * 
wasn’t often fatal, and was very often beneficial. 
Not that there weren’t .alarming symptoms—■ 
there were. ... 

Stephen and she could still go to the Temple 
and see the old, unchanged gray stones, and the 
vivid grass making a carpet for the delicate feet 
of spring when she visited London; and she loved 
to visit London, that beloved guest, as though 
she delighted in contrasting her fleeting and peren¬ 
nial loveliness with what was gray and immutable. 
The old, slow river, too, and the towers of West¬ 
minster—they could look at them and see little 
change there. 

And after all, they hadn’t stood still themselves. 
They had gone on. If they hadn’t, she wouldn’t 
have fitted into the picture to-day, as she knew 
she did, nor would Stephen have found so much 
in common with Judy. No, she had long ago said 
good-by to the hansom bells and the bustles and 
the bad doctors and the inferior plumbing—let’s 
be honest—and the extremely uncomfortable 
traveling, and she had said good-by without 
regret. 

She was writing to him the following afternoon, 


MADAME CLAIRE 249 

putting these thoughts on paper while they were 
still fresh in her mind, when Major Crosby called. 
She had hoped he would come. Certainly he 
wouldn’t go to Eaton Square for news of Judy. 
He would come to her. She wondered how far 
he would commit himself. Here was another 
simple man, but simple in a different way from 
Eric’s way. Major Crosby’s was the simplicity 
of the hermit, Eric’s of the clear thinking man of 
action who had no use for subtleties. She hoped 
he would feel that he could unburden himself to 
a woman of her age. 

That, evidently, was one of the things he had 
come for. Madame Claire wanted to be able to 
make up her mind about him to-day. She had 
liked him before, but to-day she hoped to be able 
to say, “Yes, that’s the man for Judy.” 

He very soon asked for news of her. 

“She’s being extraordinarily good for my old 
friend Stephen de Lisle,” she told him. “It’s 
well, Major Crosby, to keep one’s hold on the 
present generation. Mr. de Lisle had almost lost 
his, and he was slipping back. That’s why I sent 
Judy to him.” 

“Will she be back in time to see her brother 
before he goes?” he asked. 


250 


MADAME CLAIRE 


“Oh, yes, I’m sure of it. She’ll be very lonely 
without Noel.” 

What nice eyes the man had! Blue-gray eyes, 
rather misty, like the eyes of a kitten or a baby. 
The face was serious—a little too serious, she 
thought. She liked it though. It was a good 
face. She liked the thin, rather aquiline nose, 
the close-cut, brown mustache, the mouth with its 
expression of peculiar sweetness. She could pic¬ 
ture him performing acts of curious bravery, un¬ 
conscious of any heroism. A man who could 
study Druidism in the trenches! . . . But life 
was passing him by, as it would pass Judy by, un¬ 
less she made up her mind to grasp it. 

“Tell me,” she said, “how nearly finished is 
that prodigious book of yours?” 

“It’s practically done. I’m still polishing it 
up though. It won’t be a popular book, Lady 
Gregory. In fact I think it will be very unpop¬ 
ular.” 

“With whom will it be unpopular?” 

“Oh, with people who lay much stress upon 
ritual and creed. I think they will dislike know¬ 
ing how much of the pagan ritual has come down 
to us, and how closely our own beliefs are bound 
up with those of savage peoples. And there are 
others who don’t like hearing that Christianity 


MADAME CLAIRE 


251 

is, comparatively speaking, modern, and that there 
are other vastly more ancient revelations. And 
there are people who won’t like what I’ve said 
about the belief in reincarnation, nor be willing 
to accede an important place to the so-called mod¬ 
ern religions, such as Christian Science, New 
Thought, and Spiritualism. The book will be 
banned, undoubtedly, by one great church, and 
public libraries will think twice before circulating 

it. And yet I had to write it, and I’m glad I’ve 
written it. I only wish it were fuller and more 
convincing. It lacks what print must always lack 
—the power to persuade.” 

“And you wish to persuade us ... of what?” 

“The‘need for tolerance.” 

“You think we are still intolerant? And yet 
there are plenty of people who say we have grown 
too tolerant.” 

He shook his head. 

“There is only one tolerance that I deplore.” 

“And that is?” 

“Tolerance toward the man who believes in 
nothing at all.” 

“Why have you singled out that unfortunate?” 

“Because we have much to fear from him.” 
He got up and stood with his back to the fire. 
“When men believe in nothing, they rot. If his- 


MADAME CLAIRE 


252 

tory teaches us anything, it teaches us that. The 
world has had its greatest moments at the times 
of its greatest faith. Then when belief goes, the 
decline begins. But first these people who be¬ 
lieve in nothing set up idols of their own making. 
They call them by fine names—liberty, perhaps, 
or communism, or the freedom of the proletariat, 
or the gospel of anarchy, or mob rule. But they 
very soon tire of worshiping even them. Then 
fear enters their hearts. They believe in no here¬ 
after and no god. They see that life here is short 
and uncertain. They see that there are good 
things in the world—fine food, fine clothes, money, 
power. They want the cash. The credit can go. 
The people who lay up treasures in heaven are 
fools. Well then, let them lay up their treasures 
in heaven—and let them go after them. They 
themselves mean to have what they can see, feel, 
touch, smell. They begin trampling, stampeding, 
cursing. Get, get, get, they cry. What do they 
attack first? The churches. Away with restraint, 
away with rules, away with sickly faith. They 
want more concrete things and they mean to get 
them. Then blood incites them further. They 
kill and kill and kill. Killing and grabbing—they 
are occupied with nothing else. Some for the sake 
of appearances or because they like the sound of 


MADAME CLAIRE 


253 

words go about shouting their phrases. But 
sooner or later they turn on each other; or their 
followers, sick of blood, turn upon them. And 
then, w’hen there is a little peace, faith creeps 
back into people’s hearts again, and a belief in 
God. And they wonder how the madness came, 
and they try to wipe out the blood stains and live 
sanely again. And they go back to work in the 
fields and stop hating each other. Perhaps they 
have learned something. Not always. But they 
have got tolerance again, and a belief. And with 
those two things they can begin once more. To 
believe in something beyond this world, to have 
faith in the destiny of the soul . . . that’s every¬ 
thing.” 

He looked at her, suddenly abashed. 

“I’ve been talking to you,” he said, “as if I 
were addressing a meeting. I’m so sorry.” 

“I’ve liked it. Go on. So your book 
shows-” 

“Shows that any faith is good. Shows that all 
beliefs are so intermingled that they are almost 
inextricable. It shows that what matters is their 
common foundation—the belief in a Divine 
Creator. Without these various revelations that 
are the foundations of religion, the world would 
have been chaos. Destroy them, and the world 



MADAME CLAIRE 


254 

will be chaos. Christianity is the light on the 
path of the Western world. Other worlds, other 
lights. But to say that we can walk without light, 
or to shut our eyes and say there is no light— 
that is the great insanity, the great evil.” 

“Yes, I think that’s true,” she agreed. 

“I’m not a religious fellow, in the ordinary 
sense of the word,” he explained, “and yet I’m 
more interested in religion than in any other sub¬ 
ject. I do go to church, but more as a student 
than a worshiper. I like to think about the 
psychology of a congregation, and the possible— 
the probable benefits of worshiping all together 
in a building with four walls and a roof.” 

It wasn’t so difficult, after all, to draw him 
out. She liked making him talk. And when she 
thought she had drawn him out enough she rang 
for tea. 

“Of course this work of yours is tremendously 
interesting, but at the same time I feel more 
than ever that you need diversions. The dancing 
wasn’t altogether a success, I gathered.” 

“No,” he agreed, smiling, “I’m afraid it wasn’t. 
But when we were discussing hobbies the other 
day, I forgot to tell you that I had another, be¬ 
sides religions. And that’s the stage.” 

Madame Claire laughed. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


255 

“You extraordinary man! What aspect of the 
stage?” 

“I like writing plays. I’ve written several, but 
I don’t think they’re any good and I’ve never 
tried to do anything with them. I don’t think 
my people would be real—especially the women. 
I wonder—I’d like—would you read them some 
time? You’re critical, but you’re very kind, too.” 

“I long to read them! Bring them. The 
sooner the better. I love plays and I love the 
theater, and though my criticisms may not be valu¬ 
able, you shall have them. I often wish Judy had 
gone on the stage. She has the looks and she has 
talent, too. But of course it would have killed 
her parents.” 

It was then that he took the plunge. She had 
felt for some time that he was preparing to 
take it. 

“Miss Pendleton,” he said, “is the only 
woman I have ever met who has made me wish 
I were a rich man—or a successful man. Not 
that she would consider me if I were.” 

“I’m beginning to think you’re human!” cried 
Madame Claire. “The stage; and now you’re in 
love with Judy. I’m delighted, Major Crosby! 
Delighted. Now we have two excellent diver¬ 
sions for you. Plays, and love.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


256 

Her old eyes twinkled. 

“But I’ve no talent for either.” 

“Oh, let some one else judge of that! Let 
Judy judge.” 

He looked somewhat confused. 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said what I did.” 

“Why not? I sha’n’t give you away.” 

“If I had any prospects at all . . .” 

“It’s amazing,” she interrupted, “how strong 
and how weak men can be! There’s my son Eric, 
for instance. A born fighter. In war, in politics, 
no compromise. But in love—in love he has the 
courage of a ... of a schoolgirl. If he had 
only managed his wife! What he needs is a 
course in nettle-grasping. And so do you, Major 
Crosby.” 

“But I don’t think for a minute that Miss Pen¬ 
dleton-” 

He paused, hoping, she saw, that she would 
help him out. 

“That Miss Pendleton is interested?” 

“Oh, interested . . . she might be, just a lit¬ 
tle, out of the kindness of her heart.” 

“Major Crosby, let me tell you that women are 
only kind when it gives them pleasure to be kind. 
A woman will rarely put herself out, I’m afraid, 
for a man who bores her.” 



MADAME CLAIRE 


257 

“But even if she were—interested—even if she 
did think twice about me, which I find it very 
difficult to believe, I’ve nothing whatever to offer 
her.” 

“You mean you can’t offer her money.” 

“That’s only one of the things I haven’t got.” 

He stood in front of the fire again, as if to give 
himself the advantage of higher ground. He 
wanted to be convincing even while he hoped to 
be convinced. 

“All I ask you to do,” said Madame Claire, 
“is, for your own sake, to give yourself a chance. 
There are obstacles, admittedly, but don’t begirt 
by throwing up earthworks as well. Don’t make 
obstacles. Mind you, I’m not encouraging you. 
I only know that Judy likes you more than she 
likes most people. Beyond that I’m completely 
in the dark. Yes, Dawson?” 

“Please, m’lady,” said Dawson from the door¬ 
way, “can you see Miss Connie?” 

“Yes. Ask her to come in. No, don’t go, 
Major Crosby. You’ve met my daughter, 
Countess Chiozzi.” 

“I must go,” he said, holding out his hand. 
“But I’d like to come again soon, if I may.” 

“If you don’t,” she said, smiling up at him, 


MADAME CLAIRE 


258 

“I shall think I have lectured you too much. And 
the plays—don’t forget them!” 

He exchanged a few words with Connie as he 
passed her in the hall, and she was graciously 
polite to him. She never forgot for an instant, 
in the presence of a man, that she was a charming 
woman. After she had kissed her mother, how¬ 
ever, she felt that a remonstrance was justifiable. 

“Mother, you’re not encouraging that man, I 
hope?” 

“No, Connie, my dear, I assure you I’m not. 
I think that the difference in our ages is really 
too great.” 

“Oh, mother! I meant for Judy, of course.” 

“Ah! But before I answer that, let me tell 
you of something Eric and I thought of a few 
days ago. Something to do with you.” 

Before Connie had left her, an hour later, she 
had agreed to give up her rooms at the hotel as 
soon as Noel went to Germany, and go and keep 
house for Eric. 

She had been wondering how she was going to 
bear her life after Noel left, she said. 

“If Eric really wants me, of course I’ll go. 
I’m not a very good housekeeper, I’m afraid. 
I’m so out of practice.” 

“It will be a change for him,” Madame Claire 


MADAME CLAIRE 


259 

told her. “Louise is rather too good. She fusses. 
And besides, Eric won’t be difficult. He has very 
simple tastes.” 

“I think,” said Connie, “that from what I’ve 
heard, I shall be a better hostess than his wife 
has been.” 

“I’m convinced of it,” answered Madame 
Claire. 

When Connie had gone, she telephoned at once 
to Eric, to tell him what she had done. 

“It’s so obviously the best thing all round,” 
he agreed, “that I simply never thought of it. If 
it suits Connie, it suits me.” 

“It suits Connie very well. But of course you’ll 
say nothing to Louise. It will be time enough for 
her to know when she’s settled comfortably at 
Mistley.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


Two weeks later the following letter came from 
Judy: 

“Dearest Claire, 

“This is the last letter Til write to you from 
here, as I’m coming home so soon now. I wish 
I could bring Stephen with me, but Miss McPher¬ 
son says he won’t be ready to travel for another 
week or so, and of course I want to be back in 
time to spend a few days with Noel before he 
goes. But Stephen is wonderfully better and 
quite light-hearted, and, at the prospect of seeing 
you, light-headed. 

“Things have been happening here. Many 
things. 

“In the first place we heard this morning that 
a Count Somebody—our informant, Mr. Cole- 
bridge, couldn’t remember the name—had been 
found murdered on the Upper Corniche Road. 
He says it was an Italian name, and he is going 
to find out all he can about it. I’m almost cer¬ 
tain it will prove to be Chiozzi. He was so fear¬ 
fully jealous of that little dancer Mile. Pauline. 

260 


MADAME CLAIRE 


261 


I can quite imagine that he might have tried to 
kill her and that she might have stabbed him in 
self-defense. The body, they say—or Mr. Cole- 
bridge says—zvas dropped from a motor. They 
have a great way of hushing things up here, but 
we will try to find out all about it. Won’t Connie 
adore being a widow again? Of course you won’t 
say anything to anybody yet, as it would be so 
awfully disappointing if it should turn out to be 
some one else. How callous I am! But if you 

could have seen him -/ 

“Well, Stephen and I have been seeing life, and 
rolling about in Mr. Colebridge’s car. The man 
won’t take no for an answer when it comes to 
going out with him. Yesterday we went to the 
most wonderful little town — Gourdon, its name 

was—perched on top of a mountain, like an eagle, 

* 

and looking over the Mediterranean for endless 
miles. I saw Italy, and I’m not at all sure I didn’t 
see Africa. It was really the place of my dreams; 
the town fifteenth century, I imagine. I was in 
heaven there. I ran away from Mr. Colebridge 
and looked over the edge alone—down into the 
olive orchards. Not a sound but the cooing of 
pigeons and the far away tinkle of mule bells. 
And then Mr. C. came, with his cigar in his mouth 
and his black coat on, and talked about running a 



262 


MADAME CLAIRE 


funicular up the mountain and having a first-class 
hotel on the top. I couldn } t speak. Coming to 
earth with such a hump as that was too much for 
me. He mistook my silence for something else, 
and when I saw him take off his hat and remove 
his cigar from his mouth, I knew what was coming. 
I’m afraid I was rather ruthless. If he hadn’t 
called me ( little girl’ I might have been kinder. 
At any rate I fled hack to Stephen who couldn’t 
climb the hill leading to the town,' and left Mr. 
Colehridge gazing into space. Probably planning 
where the funicular should go. No, that’s un¬ 
fair. Anyhow, I left him, and when he joined us 
he was silent for once. I do like him, but marry 
him — oh, no, no! He has made me fall in love 
\with all modest, shy men. With all poor, unlucky 
men. With any one, in fact, who is sensitive and 
perceptive. 

“Success isn’t attractive in itself. It has to be 
offset by other attributes. It can’t be good for 
any one to own as many things as Mr. Colebridge 
owns. A railroad, endless shares in companies, 
factories, businesses, even theaters — no, he isn’t 
a Jew. He’s terrific. I should be just a thing to 
hang clothes on. He doesn’t know anything 
about me. I don’t believe he knows what color 
my eyes are. 


MADAME CLAIRE 263 

“He has helped vie to make up my mind about 
Major Crosby, who has written me several charm- 
ing letters. I’ve written him very nice ones in 
return; as nice as I dared to write. And, oh, 
Claire! What do you think Stephen means to 
do? He means to settle something on me! I 
don’t know exactly how much. But think of it! 
So that I can marry a poor man or no one at all, 
just as I like. I can be independent. I can’t 
believe it yet. I think I shall marry Chip with 
it, if what he tries not to say in his letters is true. 

“Mr. Colebridge is coming to London, about 
the same time that I am. Business, he says. I 
only hope he doesn’t take the same train. I’ve 
been very definite, but his epidermis is thick. He 
says he is anxious to meet you. One of the nice 
things about him is that he admires Stephen. 

“Good-by, Claire. I will see you soon. Thanks 
to you and to Stephen, I feel that life is just be¬ 
ginning for me.” 

“Devotedly, 

“Judy.” 

Very satisfactory, thought Madame Claire. 
No one wants gratitude—no one, except, perhaps, 
a bully—but when one does get it, how it warms 
the heart! 


MADAME CLAIRE 


264 

Callous or not, she couldn’t help hoping, like 
Judy, that the murdered Italian might prove to 
be Connie’s entirely superfluous husband. No 
other man, she felt, could so thoroughly deserve 
to die such a death, if half the things Connie had 
told of him were true. And Connie was not an 
untruthful woman. He was too evil to live . . . 
too evil to die, perhaps, but his fate in the next 
world concerned her less than his activities in this. 

Then one more letter from Stephen—the last, 
he said, from Cannes. “D.V.,” murmured Ma¬ 
dame Claire as she read the words. 

“You don’t know what you did for me when 
you lent me Judy,” he wrote. “She has grown 
very dear to me, and I have persuaded her, I 
think, to let me settle something on her. As I 
pointed out to her, if you had married me, as 
she often says you ought to have done, she would 
have been, to all practical purposes, my grand¬ 
daughter. My wants are simple, and I have only 
my niece Monica and Miss McPherson to think 
of, and they are already arranged for. Judy has 
given me an added interest in life, and as I tell 
her, I feel Pm buying shares in the coming gen¬ 
eration. I have every faith in the company and 
mean to be godfather to all the dividends. You 


MADAME CLAIRE 


2 65 

see I am taking it for granted that she will marry 
the fellow she ran over. If she doesn’t marry 
him she will need some money of her own all the 
more. The child says I have poured every good 
gift into her lap! 

“Well, well, I wish I could come hack with 
her, hut that tyrant McPherson says no. It will 
not he long though, Claire, I promise you. I am 
living on anticipation—unsatisfying fare. You 
don } t suppose, do you, that I shall have to go 
on living on it? You don’t suppose that anything 
could happen to prevent it? What a worrying 
old fool I am! Of course it can’t and won’t. 

<( Cojinie is a widow! Perhaps this is not break¬ 
ing it gently, hut personally I think it is excellent 
news. Chiozzi died from a stah over the heart. 
He was motoring from Cannes to Monte Carlo • 
at night along the Upper Corniche Road in Mile. 
Pauline’s car. That is all that is known. The 
lady, her maid, her car and her chauffeur have 
vanished. I think Judy prepared you for this. 
Will you tell Connie? Perhaps she has already 
heard through her solicitors in Paris. I don’t 
think she will grieve. 

U I hope that a telegram to say I am leaving 
will he the next word you receive from me. Pray 
that it may. (< Yours, “Stephen.” 





CHAPTER XXII 


Judy reached London at ten o’clock one night, 
tired but in the best of spirits. She felt that she 
was returning, thanks to Stephen, to a new life. 
Eaton Square no longer seemed to her a prison. 
Money had opened the doors of that solemn 
house. Millie’s powers of suppression and re¬ 
pression had been lessened. Noel’s departure for 
Germany no longer hung over her like a tragedy. 
What was there to prevent her going to see him 
half way through that interminable year? 

She felt that she had never appreciated money 
before. It cut binding ropes like a knife. It gave 
one seven league boots. A pair of wings, too. 
People who belittled its powers were either hypo¬ 
crites or fools. Why did old people prefer to 
make young people glad when they were dead 
instead of glad while they were alive? 

After helping to disentangle her luggage, Noel 
took her back to the dark house in Eaton Square. 
A light had been left burning half way up the 
stairs, but Millie, as a protest against this trip 

that she had never approved of—“It isn’t as 

2 66 


MADAME CLAIRE 


267 

though Mr. de Lisle were a relation,” she had 
frequently said—had gone early to .bed, followed 
by her obedient John. 

The two crept up to Judy’s room and talked 
until nearly two. Noel heard all about Cannes 
and about the people she had met there, includ¬ 
ing Mr. Colebridge, whom he at once decided he 
wanted to know. 

“He’s coming to London in a few days,” said 
Judy, “so your wish may be granted.” 

Finally he consented to talk about himself. 
He had heard that afternoon that their departure 
had been postponed and that they were not leav¬ 
ing for a week—he and his chief with the ridicu¬ 
lous name. He thought he was going to like the 
job, and it was wonderful how his German was 
beginning to come back to him at the very thought 
of the journey. 

“The only drawback to the whole thing,” he 
said, “is the feeling that I’m leaving you to fight 
your battles alone.” 

That was the moment she had waited for. She 
told him why she was not utterly dashed to earth 
by his going. His delight was equal to her own. 

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Stephen’s an old 
sportsman! I wish there were more like him. 
I can hardly wait to tell him what I think of him. 


268 


MADAME CLAIRE 


Judy, with an income of her own! What will you 
do with it besides coming to see me?” 

She hesitated, and then said flushing but meet¬ 
ing his eyes courageously: 

“I’m thinking of marrying Chip with it, 
Noel.” 

He wasn’t altogether astonished, nor did he 
pretend to be; but although he had discussed that 
possibility with her more or less seriously before, 
he felt he ought now point out its very obvious 
drawbacks. It would mean an arduous life, with 
few pleasures. 

“I’m almost afraid to encourage you to do it, 
old girl,” he said. “Only I like him so much. 
He may be a dreamer, and he may be unpractical, 
and that book of his may not be worth the paper 
it’s written on, for all I know. But I do know 
that he’s one of the very best fellows I ever met. 
One of the very best. And he’s hard hit.” 

“It’s awful—this deciding,” said Judy. “That’s 
where Claire and Stephen have the advantage of 
us. They can just live from day to day and take 
what the gods bring. And if they don’t bring 
anything—well, they’ve lived. But this not know¬ 
ing what to do with your life—this trying to 
make the most of it and not knowing how—it’s 
hell, sometimes.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


269 

“Poor old Judy! ‘Standing with reluctant 

feet-’ Is that it? But I know what you 

mean.” 

“Tell me,” she said, “are you sure, are you 
absolutely sure that Chip-?” 

“Is hard hit? Good Lord! A baby could have 
seen it. All the same you’ll have your work cut 
out for you. He’s so terribly modest. He doesn’t 
seem to think that you or any other woman would 
give him a thought.” 

Later she remembered that she had news for 
him, and wondered how she could have forgot¬ 
ten it. 

“Noel, I meant to have told you before. About 
Chiozzi. You haven’t heard, have you?” 

“Chiozzi? No. What about him?” 

“He’s dead. He was stabbed—by that pretty 
dancer, Mile. Pauline, they think.” 

Noel looked concerned. 

“That’s the worst news I’ve heard in a long 
time.” 

“The worst? What do you mean?” 

“It’s most upsetting, in fact. Connie told me 
the other day that Petrovitch’s second wife, an 
American, had just divorced him.” 

“Well? I’m not surprised at that.” 






MADAME CLAIRE 


270 

“Well, don’t you see? She’ll marry Petro- 
vitch now, and be miserable forever after.” 

“Marry him?” Judy was incredulous. “She 
wouldn’t be such a fool.” 

“Ho! Wouldn’t she? You don’t know your 
Aunt Constance as well as I do. And I won’t 
be here to prevent it. Hang it all! I wish 
Chiozzi hadn’t got himself done in just now.” 

“Let’s not tell her,” suggested Judy. 

“That’s no good. She’s probably heard from 
her solicitors in Paris already. I haven’t seen 
her for two or three days. She’s at Eastbourne 
and won’t be back till the day after to-morrow. 
What’s to be done now, I wonder? I never 
guessed that a fallen aunt would be such a re- 
sponsibility.” 

“But,” said Judy, “suppose she does marry 
Petrovitch. Wouldn’t that be a solution, in a 
way?” 

Noel’s jaw looked uncompromisingly firm at 
that moment. 

“Not in the way I would like. Connie’s a fool, 
but she’s not bad. Petrovitch is a brute. If she 
marries him she’s done for, for good.” 

“Leave it to Claire. She’ll find a way to stop 
it.” 

“No, she won’t. She can’t. I’ve got mo*e 


MADAME CLAIRE '271 

influence with Connie than anybody, but if she 
sees a chance of marrying Petrovitch she won’t 
listen to me, even.” 

He sat for a moment lost in thought, then 
looked at his watch. 

“Well, this wants thinking out. Get to bed, 
Judy. You’re dead tired. I hope they’re pleas¬ 
ant to you at breakfast. They seemed to think 
you had no right to go away and enjoy yourself.” 

“What will they say when they hear I’ve ac¬ 
cepted this settlement from Stephen?” 

“You leave them to me,” he said. 

Judy kissed him. 

“Good night, you wonderfullest of brothers!” 

Three days later, Judy was at Madame Claire’s 
when Mr. Colebridge was announced. 

“I knew he’d come,” she whispered. 

He came, looking exactly as he had looked at 
Cannes. His heavy and rather expressionless 
face never lost its look of solemn imperturba¬ 
bility. No smile disturbed his features at sight 
of Judy, though he could not have known he 
would meet her there. Madame Claire extended 
a hand with lace at the wrist. 

“Mr. Colebridge! How nice of you to come 
and see an old lady! I’ve heard so much about 



MADAME CLAIRE 


272 

you from Mr. de Lisle and my granddaughter 
that I feel I know you quite well.” 

He took her hand. 

“It’s real kind of you to welcome me like this.” 
He turned to Judy. “Well, Miss Pendleton, I’m 
glad to see you got here safe and sound. Cannes 
seemed sorter dead after you left it, so I made 
up my mind to pull up stakes and quit.” 

“But you had to come on business,” she re¬ 
minded him. 

“That’s so. There’s a lot of different kinds 
of business. Seems as if I kinder knew you too, 
Lady Gregory. Say, I’m just cracked about that 
old Mr. de Lisle. He sure is a fine old gentle¬ 
man.” 

“I think he’s rather nice,” agreed Madame 
Claire. “You saw him the most recently. Tell 
us how he was?” 

“Just living for the day when he can get back 
here. But improving right along. I said to him, 
‘Mr. de Lisle,’ I said, ‘I guess you’ll pine away if 
you don’t get to London soon.’ And that’s just 
what he’d do. He’d pine away. Mind if I smoke 
a cigar, Lady Gregory?” 

“No, no. Do smoke. You were very kind to 
him and to Judy there. She’s told me about the 
delightful trips you took.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


273 

“Well, say, it was a pleasure. I don’t take 
much stock in scenery. I like to have folks to 
talk to. Maybe we can take some rides around 
London later on, Miss Pendleton.” 

Judy was surprised. Surely she had made her¬ 
self clear. Or was it that he merely wished 
to continue friendly relations? She replied eva¬ 
sively, and Madame Claire changed the subject 
for her. 

“How long will you be in London?” she asked. 

“A matter of six months or so, I shouldn’t 
wonder. I’m not figuring on going back just yet. 
We’ve got some factories over here that I want 
to look into, and I may run over to Paris later 
on.” x 

“Do you know London at all?” 

“No, but my chauffeur does, so I don’t worry. 
I picked up an English chauffeur in Cannes, Miss 
Pendleton. The French fellow I had wouldn’t 
leave his wife and family, and anyway, he didn’t 
speak any language that I could understand. But 
with this English chauffeur, if I listen real care¬ 
fully, I can pick up a word now and then.” 

They laughed at this. Madame Claire felt 
that she was going to enjoy Mr. Colebridge. 

“You seem to be interested in a great many 
things,” she remarked presently. “Didn’t I 



274 MADAME CLAIRE 

understand Judy to say that the theater was one 
of them?’ 

“Only from a business point of view,” he ex¬ 
plained. “I don’t claim to know anything about 
the stage. But when I see that a certain theater 
is about to go smash because it’s been managed 
by a lot of bone-heads, why, I don’t mind lending 
a hand. I practically own one in New York, and 
one in Cincinnati. There’s another one in New 
York that looks like getting into difficulties pretty 
soon.” 

“Ah! And then you step in. But does that 
mean that you can put on certain plays, and have 
an actual voice in the production of them?” 

“Well, I don’t concern myself much with that 
side of it. I don’t know a good play from a bad 
one. I like a good lively show now and then. 
But if I wanted a certain play put on, I’d get it 
put on, all right.” 

Judy wondered why it was that financial weight 
and an understanding of the arts so seldom went 
hand in hand. Madame Claire pursued a line of 
thought of her own for a moment or two while 
Mr. Colebridge enlarged upon his powers. 

And then, most unexpectedly, Dawson opened 
the door and announced Major Crosby. 

How strange that those two men should meet, 


MADAME CLAIRE 275 

thought Judy! She remembered telling Claire 
in one of her letters that it was impossible to 
imagine two men less alike. And now that she 
saw them together she knew that what she had 
said was true. 

Major Crosby was introduced to Mr. Cole- 
bridge, who was pleased to make his acquaint¬ 
ance, and Madame Claire ordered tea. 

“This is a wonderful afternoon for me,” she 
said. “I don’t often have so many visitors. It’s 
very exciting.” 

It didn’t take Chip more than a second or two 
to place the other caller. Judy had mentioned 
an American she had met in Cannes, and lo! 
Here he was. She had only been home two or 
three days. He hadn’t waited very long before 
following after. Judy tried to talk to him, but 
Mr. Colebridge had the floor and meant to keep 
it. Chip retired into his shell—that haven of 
refuge from which he seldom advanced very far 
in company—and contented himself with looking 
and listening. He looked chiefly at Judy. She 
was looking very lovely, he thought. No wonder 
that people followed her from Cannes to London. 
Powerful, authoritative-looking people, who 
booked large outside cabins on ocean liners as a 
matter of course, and always gravitated to the 



MADAME CLAIRE 


276 

most expensive hotels. What a fool he had been I 
This man could give her everything. Why not, as 
he seemed to own it? What was he saying? 

“So I told them I wasn’t having any. I told 
them I had all the irons in the fire I wanted. It 
was a good thing all right, but say, what’s the 
good of any more money to me? I’ve got all I 
want right now. And if I ever do make any more, 
it will be just to turn it over to my wife if I’ve 
got one”—he looked straight at Judy as he said 
it—“and say, ‘There you are. It’s yours to do as 
you like with. Throw it away, spend it, it’s all 
the same to me. So long as you have a good 
time with it, and it makes you happy.’ ” 

“And of course it will,” said Judy with faint 
sarcasm. 

“Sure it will,” he agreed, taking her words 
at their face value. “I guess it’s what every 
woman wants. Isn’t that so, Lady Gregory?” 

Madame Claire regarded him seriously. 

“You never can tell, Mr. Colebridge,” she said. 
“Women are the most unaccountable creatures. 
Sometimes it takes more than money to make 
them happy.” 

“Oh, well,” Mr. Colebridge defended the sex, 
“when it comes to unreasonableness, I guess men 
aren’t all reasonable either.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


277 

Judy glanced at Chip, hoping to catch a twinkle 
of amusement in his eye, but he was looking at 
Mr. Colebridge. 

Chip stayed for an hour or more, saying very 
little, seeming to prefer listening to talking. 

“You make me such very short visits,” com¬ 
plained Madame Claire when he got up to go. 
“I hardly have time to say five words to you be¬ 
fore you're off again. But perhaps you’ll pay me 
another visit soon.” 

“My plans are rather unsettled just now,” said 
Chip vaguely. “May I ring you up one day?” 

“Yes, do.” 

He turned to Judy. 

“Tell me,” she asked as she took his hand, 
“are you prefectly well again? No more of 
those headaches?” 

“Oh, yes, I’m as well as ever, thank you. I’ve 
almost forgotten that it ever happened—I mean 
as far as the injuries are concerned.” 

Judy smiled at him, sorry because she knew he 
felt he had said something stupid. 

“Noel wants to see you, too. We must meet 
again soon.” 

“I want to see him. I’ll write. It’s just pos¬ 
sible that I may go away soon, but I’ll let you 
know.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


278 

He said good-by to Mr. Colebridge, who shook 
him by the hand, and in a moment he was gone. 

“Could anything,” Judy asked herself, “be 
more unsatisfactory?” 

She stayed half an hour longer, hoping for a 
few words alone with Madame Claire, but as Mr. 
Colebridge made no move she presently got up 
to go. 

“Good-by, Claire, dear. Let me know the 
moment you get a wire from Stephen.” 

Mr. Colebridge also rose. 

“My car’s outside,” he said. “I trust you’ll 
allow me to drop you at your home, Miss Pendle¬ 
ton.” 

She was about to refuse on the grounds that 
she wanted a walk, but thought better of it. It 
would be a good opportunity for a few words 
with him. She kissed Madame Claire, and Mr. 
Colebridge, after announcing his intention of 
coming again soon, followed her out. 

The same car, a different chauffeur, and very 
different surroundirfgs. Mr. Colebridge, how¬ 
ever, was as unchanged as his car. 

“That’s a lovely old lady,” he remarked as 
they left the hotel. 

“Isn’t she wonderful?” 

“I hope,” he said, “that we can sorter meet 


MADAME CLAIRE 


279 

there often. I don’t mind telling you, Miss Pen¬ 
dleton, that when I say I’m here on business, that 
business is partly you. I don’t get easily cast 
down. I kinder bob up again. Now,” he went 
on as she tried to interrupt, “I hope, little girl, 
that you’re going to reconsider. I’m here to try 
to persuade you to reconsider.” 

“It’s quite out of the question, Mr. Colebridge. 
I told you so before. Do, please, believe me this 
time.” 

“It’s that voice of yours that gets me,” he 
replied. “You’d make a hit in America, all 
right.” 

“You’re hopeless!” she exclaimed. “I simply 
don’t understand American men. But perhaps 
they’re not all like you. You won’t learn any¬ 
thing! It’s like . . . it’s like trying to teach an 
elephant to dance.” 

“Go ahead. Don’t mind me.” 

“Very well, I will. The trouble with you is, 
you’ve no diffidence. You’ve never tried to see 
yourself as others see you. You’re just Mr. 
Whitman Colebridge of Cincinnati—wherever 
that is—and you’re worth I don’t know and don’t 
care how much, and as far as you’re concerned, 
that’s enough. You’ve never asked yourself if 
you lack anything. You’re perfectly satisfied with 


280 


MADAME CLAIRE 


yourself as you are. Perfectly. Isn’t that true ?” 

He considered this, studying the end of a fresh 
cigar. 

“I can’t see,” he said, “that I’m any worse 
than the general run.” 

“No. You don’t see. You don’t see anything 
that isn’t business. You’ve gone through life like 
a rocket, with a good deal of noise and a lot of 
speed, and that’s all.” 

“Well, there’s no harm in a rocket,” he said 
easily. “It gives people something to look at, 
and it’s real pretty when it bursts.” 

Judy laughed helplessly. 

“Perhaps if you’d do the same I might like 
you better. But at present you’re so swollen with 
success that you’re intolerable.” 

“Bully for you! That was straight from the 
shoulder.” 

“But what’s the good of it? It goes in one 
ear and out the other. Well, here’s something 
that will stick, perhaps. You met a Major Crosby 
at my grandmother’s this afternoon.” 

“That his name? Quiet sorter fellow.” 

“Yes. I’m going to marry him.” 

She watched his face and saw that not a mus¬ 
cle of it changed. 

“That so? I guessed there must be some one. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


281 


Well, you won't hear me squeal. You’ve been 
fair and square with me, and I guess I can take 
my medicine.” 

“Now I’m beginning to like you better. I’ve 
liked some things about you all the time, even 
when you irritated me most. I’m sorry we can’t 
be friends, but I see that’s out of the question 
too.” 

“I’m not so sure. I’ll just stick around for 
a while and see what happens, anyhow. You’re 
the first woman who’s ever taken enough interest 
in me to criticize me, and I think it’s a hopeful 
sign. You engaged to that fellow?” 

They had reached the house in Eaton Square. 

“That,” she said, shaking hands with him, “I 
prefer not to say.” 

“Oh, well,” he answered, returning to the car, 
“I just kinder thought I’d ask.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Judy knocked on Noel’s bedroom door before 
dinner the following evening, and was invited to 
enter. 

“What’s up?” asked Noel, who was sorting 
ties and socks. 

“This,” she answered, displaying a letter. 
“The most disgusting thing’s happened.” 

“What is it? It looks like Chip’s writing.” 

“It is. I told you he called on Claire yester¬ 
day when I was there, and met Mr. Colebridge.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, he seems to have jumped to conclusions. 
Listen to this. I’ll read it to you. 

“ ‘Dear Miss Pendleton, 

“ ‘I think I told you about a cottage my 
mother owned in Cornwall. Ids a very remote, 
quiet little place, and Pve found it very useful at 
different times. I think it will exactly suit my 
present mood, and Pm going down there by an 
early train to-morrow. I hope to be able to finish 
the book there. I don’t seem to have been able to 
get on with it lately . 


282 


MADAME CLAIRE 


283 

“ 7 want to thank you again for all your kind¬ 
ness to me y kindness that few people would have 
shown to a careless individual who got in the 
way of their car. I shall never forget it. There 
was a time - * 

“Then,” she broke off, “he goes on to say 
something about having been foolish enough to 
hope something or other—I’ll skip that. Then: 

“ 7 think that your days of freedom and hap¬ 
piness are just beginning, and I hope with all my 
heart that you may find in your marriage all that 
you have so far missed in life. You will be marry¬ 
ing a man who can give you everything—all the 
good things that are so obviously yours by right. 

“ Will you say good-by to your brother for 
me? He has given me his address in Germany f 
and I mean to write to him there. 

“ ‘This is a stupid, stilted letter, but I feel con¬ 
fident that you will understand the much that it 
fails to say, and forgive it its shortcomings. 

“ ‘Always yours sincerely, 

“ ‘Andrew Crosby.” 

“Dated yesterday,” she added. She put the 
letter back into its envelope. “He must have 
left for Cornwall early this morning.” 

Noel whistled. 




MADAME CLAIRE 


284 

“Mr. Colebridge must have been a bit forth¬ 
coming yesterday.” 

“Forthcoming isn’t the word for it. He talked 
about the money he would give his wife, and 
looked straight at me—oh, isn’t it maddening! 
I wouldn’t have had this happen for anything!” 

“Have you told Claire?” 

“Yes. I took the letter there as soon as it 
came.” 

“What did she say?” 

“A good deal, but I don’t see how I can pos¬ 
sibly act on her advice. She says that if I don’t 
go to Cornwall and straighten things out with 
him, I’m a fool. She has a horror of misunder¬ 
standings. She begged me to go.” 

“But, hang it all! You can’t go alone. If it 

weren’t for this German trip, I-” He broke 

off, frowning. “So she thinks you ought to go 
down there?” 

“She was most emphatic about it.” 

“Let’s see—what day is to-day? By Jove, 
Judy! There’s time if we go to-morrow. What 
do you say? Shall we?” 

“Oh, Noel! I don’t know what to say. I do 
want to talk to him. I couldn’t write anything 
—that would mean anything. I’d have to see 
him. What do you think?” 



MADAME CLAIRE 285 

“I think old Claire’s pretty generally right.” 

‘‘Then—shall we go?” 

“I’m ready if you are,” he replied. “I’d like 
to see old Chip again myself. It means the ten- 
thirty from Paddington, you know.” 

“What will the family say?” Judy asked him. 
“Oh, well, let them say it! I knew I could count 
on you, Noel!” 

****** 

Once in the swift and inexorable train, Judy 
was assailed with doubts. What was she doing? 
Should she have let things take their own course? 
Would it have been wiser to have stayed at home, 
and to have written Chip a letter? 

Noel, observing her restlessness and guessing 
the cause, told her he had won five pounds at 
bridge the day before, and that if she wanted to 
pull the emergency cord and get out, he’d pay. 
But when she asked him point blank, “Tell me, 
do you think I’m acting like a fool?” he replied, 
“No, like a human being,” and she felt calmer 
then and read her magazine. 

But panic overwhelmed her once more in the 
jolting Ford with flapping side curtains that took 
them from the inn in West Perranpool to Cliff 
Cottage, where Chip lived. 

“Why did we come?” she cried. 


286 


MADAME CLAIRE 


“Because,” said Noel, the comforter, “I wanted 
to see Chip again befcre I went to Germany, 
and I brought you with me. And besides, I saw 
his doctor again the other day, and he said that 
what Chip needed more than anything was cheer¬ 
ing up. He said he’d been rather depressed since 
the accident. So stop agonizing about it.” 

She stopped agonizing after that, and watched 
the thin rain of early spring that slanted steadily 
down from a darkening sky. The bleak landscape 
had a peculiar charm. So, too, had the lonely, 
white cottages they passed, their undrawn cur¬ 
tains showing fiery painted walls, for dusk was 
upon them. They climbed a little hill and pulled 
up sharply at the door of a low house that looked 
at the sea from its dormer windows. Lights 
burned there, too. The driver of the Ford had 
assured them that Major Crosby would be in, 
because, he said, there was never anything to go 
out for. They told him to wait, and knocked 
at the door. 

Chip opened it himself. It was just dark 
enough to make it difficult for him to recognize 
them, but when he did he was almost overcome 
with surprise and pleasure. He stammered. He 
shook hands twice over. He shut the door too 
quickly behind them—as though, Judy thought, 


MADAME CLAIRE 


287 

he were afraid they might go out again—and 
caught her skirt in it, at which they all laughed. 
He pushed every chair in the room toward the 
fire, as if they were capable of sitting in more 
than one apiece. 

“This is glorious!” he cried. “I can hardly 
believe it! I never dreamed of it. You must 
stay to supper. No, I’m not my own cook; I’d 
starve if I were. There’s a Cornish char here 
somewhere. I’ll tell her.” 

He rushed off, and they heard him giving ex¬ 
cited and confused directions in the kitchen. Then 
he rushed back. 

“I’m going to send the car away. It’s only a 
mile to the inn. I’ll walk back with you after 
supper. You’re angels from heaven, both of you. 
There’s only fish and eggs and cheese. Can you 
bear that?” 

Judy saw a new Chip—a happy, hopeful one. 
Excitement and wholly unexpected pleasure gave 
him confidence. He asked a hundred questions. 
He made Judy take off her hat and coat and car¬ 
ried them away into his room. He replenished 
the fire and hurled into it some papers that had 
been lying on the table. 

“I was trying to write a letter,” he explained. 
Judy thought she saw her name on a blackening 



288 


MADAME CLAIRE 


sheet before it puffed into flame. Another letter, 
to her? Was he dissatisfied, perhaps, with the 
letter he had written her before leaving London? 
How little he had guessed, while writing it, that 
he would be interrupted half way through it, and 
by her. His eyes shone, and his undisciplined 
hair stood up at the back like a schoolboy’s. He 
didn’t know or care. He was happy. 

There in that cottage room, Judy felt the influ¬ 
ence of the woman who had furnished it. She 
had put into it all the little personal odds and 
ends that she had loved. There was her work 
table, there her favorite chair. There was the 
writing table where she had sat penning the novels 
that had educated her son. Novels, Chip had 
said, that she would have hated. But he was 
wrong. There, on the mantelpiece with its 
tasseled, red velvet draping, were pictures of Chip 
as a baby, as a schoolboy, as a youth at Sand¬ 
hurst, where he had acquired that absurd nick¬ 
name of his, and as a First Lieutenant about to 
take his part in the South African war, from 
which campaign he had returned to find her gone. 
He had left everything as she had left it, and 
Judy was disposed to love him for it. Books 
were scattered about the room, and it had the air 
of being much lived in and much worked in. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


289 

It was easy enough for him to talk to-day. His 
reserve seemed to have melted away from him. 
Had he heard anything more from Helen about 
meeting influential people, Judy asked? No, he 
hadn’t. She had forgotten all about it, no doubt. 
He was rather relieved that she had. 

“People have no time for failures,” Chip said, 
“and quite right too. A man who has reached 
the age of forty-four without accomplishing any¬ 
thing is a failure.” 

“That’s tosh!” said Noel. “Every one’s a 
failure at some time of their lives. The thing 
is to see that it isn’t chronic.” 

The old Cornish woman came in and laid the 
table for supper, bringing with her an extra lamp. 
She seemed very pleased that the Major had 
company, and looked approvingly at Judy. They 
sat down presently to a savory meal, and she 
waited on them with enthusiasm, putting in a 
word now and then. 

Chip talked of the country round about. 

“It’s beautiful,” he said, “if you happen to 
like these rather bleak and open places. I do, 
myself.” 

“So do I,” agreed Judy. “But I love trees, 
too; although I think treeless places are better 
for one. I always imagine I can think better 


MADAME CLAIRE 


290 

where there aren’t many trees. Perhaps they have 
thoughts of their own, and they get mixed up with 
our thoughts.” 

“Well, one can think here,” Chip said. “There 
are some fine walks, too. I’ll take you for a walk 
over the cliffs to-morrow, if it’s not too cold and 
windy.” 

“We’ll come over after breakfast,” said Noel. 
“You might walk half way and meet us, Chip.” 

“Right!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm. “I’ll 
start out at about half-past nine.” 

After supper they sat by the fire and talked 
until Judy grew so sleepy that she said she’d 
never be able to get to the inn if they didn’t start 
at once. 

When they went out they found it had stopped 
raining, but there was a high wind blowing. It 
roared high up over their heads most of the time, 
every now and then swooping down upon them 
and shaking their clothes, then going crazily off 
to roar above their heads again. The moon 
looked out occasionally through gaps in the flying 
clouds. A wild night that made the blood go 
faster. The road was rough and stony and in 
order to be guided better, Judy passed one arm 
through Chip’s and the other through Noel’s, and 
they walked abreast. She felt Chip straighten 


MADAME CLAIRE 


291 

suddenly when she put her arm through his, and 
for some moments he walked without speaking, 
holding her arm rigidly as though he were abnor¬ 
mally conscious of her touch. 

He said good night to them at the door of the 
inn—a mere whitewashed cottage, much added 
on to—and Judy marveled at the change in his 
face when the light fell on it from the open door 
—the change wrought in it by a few hours of 
happiness. It seemed to her that it was a differ¬ 
ent being who had stared out at them from his 
own door earlier that evening. 

“Good night,” he said for the third time. “I 
won’t try to thank you for coming. I can’t.” 

And he vanished abruptly into the darkness. 

vL- 

“The question before the house,” said Noel 
the next morning at breakfast, “is this: how am 
I going to lose myself to-day?” 

“Oh, no!” cried Judy in a panic at the thought. 
“You’re not to, Noel. Please don’t leave me. 
I’ve quite changed my mind. I think it’s much 
better to let things take their own course.” 

“All right, let them,” he agreed. “All I mean 
to do is to clear the course a bit. It’s going to be 
rather difficult. I think I’d better leave it to the 
inspiration of the moment.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


292 

He said no more about it, and promptly at 
half-past nine they left the inn together and made 
their way toward Cliff Cottage. They had gone 
less than half way, however, when they met Chip 
walking toward them with long strides. 

“Good morning!” he called out. “Did you 
sleep well?” 

“We never slept better,” answered Judy, “and 
I feel as if I could walk twenty miles.” 

“So do I,” said Noel, “but all the walking I 
shall do this morning will be to the post office 
and back.” 

“Why?” exclaimed the other two. 

“It’s my own fault. I never sent the Chief 
word that I wouldn’t be in town to-day. Clean 
forgot it. I’ll send him a wire to say what time 
I’ll be back to-morrow. Then I must write one 
or two letters I won’t have another chance to 
write before I go off on Thursday. Anyhow, I’ll 
meet you at the inn at one. You’re lunching 
with us to-day, Chip. Well,” as he turned to 
leave them, “have a good walk. So long!” 

They stood watching his thin, upright figure. 
That empty sleeve of his, tucked into the pocket 
of his coat, did not affect his easy, swinging walk. 
He ignored it himself so utterly that he made 
other people ignore it too. They waited until he 


MADAME CLAIRE 


293 

looked back and waved at them, and then they 
started on their way. 

“I almost believed him myself,” thought Judy, 
admiring the ease with which he had taken him¬ 
self off. 

“Your brother Noel,” said Chip, “is the best 
fellow I’ve ever known.” 

Appreciation of Noel always touched Judy to 
the quick. 

“You don’t know how that pleases me!” she 
cried. “I’m so glad you feel that. There’s no 
one like him.” 

“You are like him,” said Chip quietly. 

“I wish I were more like him.” 

For a while they walked on without speaking. 

“Chip,” said Judy at last, “I’m going to call 
you that. I have for a long time in my own 
mind and to Noel. Please treat me like an old 
friend and tell me about yourself and your plans. 
Don’t let’s be reserved with each other. There’s 
so much I want to know about you. I promise 
you there’s nothing I would hesitate to tell you 
about myself, and I wish you would feel that 
you could discuss anything with me.” 

“I will,” he replied. “I do.” 

They still had with them the high wind of the 
night before. It was fresh and bracing, but not 


MADAME CLAIRE 


294 

cold, and it carried with it a smell of the sea and 
of the turf, wet with yesterday’s rain. 

“Tell me, then. What do you mean to do 
now?” 

“Finish the book, first of all. Beyond that 
I’ve no plans at all. The worst of it is, I’ve 
rather lost faith in it lately. I suppose one is 
apt to feel like that, after working on a thing 
for twelve years. Now that it’s nearly done, I 
want to chuck the whole blessed thing into the 
fire. It would give me a queer sort of satisfaction 
to see it burn. Remorse and despair would follow, 
of course.” 

“Kindly resist any such impulse,” she said. 

“Oh, I shan’t give in to it, I promise you.” 

“It’s all wrong for you to live alone as you 
do,” Judy told him. “Only people who are very 
socially inclined ought to live alone, for they’d 
take good care not to be alone any more than 
they could help. I think loneliness is paralyzing.” 

“I believe it is,” he agreed. 

“Very well then. You must stop living this 
hermit’s life.” 

“That,” he said smiling, “isn’t as easy as it 
sounds.” 

“It’s fairly easy, I think. You must marry.” 

Chip had no reply to make to that for some 


MADAME CLAIRE 


295 

time. They walked on, along a path that bor¬ 
dered the turfy cliff. The sea, its grayness 
whipped by the wind into lines of white foam 
that advanced and retreated, was worrying the 
rocks below them. Gulls flashed silver white 
against a low and frowning sky. The day suited 
her mood. She felt bold, braced by the wind and 
the sea. The high cliffs gave her courage. The 
space gave her freedom. 

“For that,” Chip said at last, “two things are 
necessary. The first is love; the second is the 
means to keep that love from perishing.” 

“Once you possess the first,” said Judy, “you 
have more power to gain the second.” 

“But I don’t possess it.” 

“Do you mean that you have never loved any 
one?” 

“I mean that no one does or could care for me.” 

“I wish you hadn’t said that,” she told him, 
turning her head to meet his eyes. 

“Why? It’s the truth.” 

“No, it isn’t the truth. Besides, no man ought 
to be as humble as that. It’s all wrong. You 
have never tried to make any one love you. Have 
you?” 

“No.” 

“Then how can you possibly know?” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


296 

“I have no right to try.” 

“As much right as any other man. More than 
most.” 

“No, no! You don’t understand. You’re for¬ 
getting that-” 

“I wonder,” interrupted Judy, “how many 
other men and women have had this same argu¬ 
ment? The woman putting love first, the man 
money. Or vice versa. You, evidently, put money 
first.” 

This was more than he could bear. 

“Don’t say that!” he broke out. “Say that 
I put love first, every time, and that I would 
sacrifice everything for it and to it, rather than 
do it less than justice. A man has no right to 
snatch at love, regardless of the consequences. 
To put it first is sometimes the supremest selfish¬ 
ness. It’s putting oneself first, one’s own gain 
and good first.” 

“You’re perfectly right, Chip,” she answered. 
“I know you’re right. Only, if by putting it first 
you were adding to some one else’s happiness . . . 
instead of taking away from it . . .” 

She saw his lips tighten. 

“I am only hurting him,” she thought. “It 
would be better to speak out.” 

“Chip,” she said at last, “I want to talk to 



MADAME CLAIRE 


297 

you about your letter. The one you wrote before 
coming down here. You evidently took it for 
granted I was going to marry Mr. Colebridge, 
and that soon. Don’t you think you rather jumped 
to conclusions? Because I’ve no intention of mar¬ 
rying Mr. Colebridge, now or later. What made 
you think I had?” 

“He did.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, there he was—rich, successful, influen¬ 
tial. A man of standing and power . . . and in 
love with you ... as any one could see. He 
had followed you from the South of France . . . 
you were together at Lady Gregory’s ... it all 
seemed so perfectly natural . . . and suitable . . .” 

“You think it would have been suitable?” 

“From a worldly point of view, yes. Though 
I prefer not to say what was going on in my 
mind. . . .” 

“And you think my point of view is a wholly 
worldly one?” 

“I never said that!” 

“You practically did. You must have thought 
it. I thought you knew me better than that.” 

“I saw no reason to suppose that you would 
have chosen him merely from worldly motives. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


298 

I judged him to be kind, generous, honest—a 
man a woman might be very fond of-” 

“What sort of a woman? My sort?” 

“I didn’t argue about it. I accepted it. There 
it was. I believed you had decided to marry him. 
I knew that if you had done so, you must have 
had good reasons for it. I was prepared to be¬ 
lieve you were acting for . . . for the best.” 

“What else was going on in your mind as you 
sat there? You were very quiet.” 

“I would rather not say.” 

“You understand that I am not going to marry 
him?” 

“I do, and I—selfishly and unreasonably—I 
can’t help being thankful. That’s only human, I 
suppose. But even if I had known it that day, 
I think I would have made up my mind to come 
here just the same.” 

“But why?” 

“I think you must know why.” 

Very gently and quietly said. One might speak 
so to a child who asks foolish and tactless ques¬ 
tions. Oh, Claire! It’s all very well, thought 
Judy, to say, have it out with him, but what would 
you do yourself, if you were gently put aside like 
that, and chidden a little? “I think you must 
know why.” As if to say, “And now let’s hear 



MADAME CLAIRE 


299 

no more about it.” Claire had spoken as if it 
were going to be the easiest thing in the world 
to have it out with him! . . . 

They rounded a curve in the path then and 
Judy cried out at the beauty of the view. Far 
below them the sea pounded and foamed. The 
cliffs fell away with a sheer drop that gave her 
an uneasy sensation of falling, for an instant, and 
the wind buffeted them with such violence that 
Chip took her by the arm and drew her back from 
the path that ran dangerously close to the edge. 
For a moment, speech was impossible. 

“Can’t we sit somewhere,” she cried, when 
she could get her breath, “out of the wind?” 

He pointed to a great bowlder that overhung 
the path a dozen yards ahead, and they struggled 
toward it and crept into its shelter. There the 
wind rushed by them but did not disturb them. 

“That’s better,” she said. “I can talk now 
without shouting.” 

“And I can smoke,” said Chip, filling a pipe, 
“which is a great help.” 

“I said a few minutes ago,” she told him 
quietly, “that there was nothing I would hesitate 
to tell you about myself. I mean to prove, now, 
that I’m as good as my word. I can’t see that 
we gain anything by . . . not speaking out to 


MADAME CLAIRE 


300 

each other. We’re both very inclined to be re¬ 
served, and to-day . . . to-day that sort of thing 
seems to me very petty and artificial.” 

He turned and looked at her, smiling. 

“You could never be either petty or artificial.” 

“Yes, I could. I have been. But I don’t mean 
to be so with you. What will you think of me, 
Chip, if I tell you that I know . . . yes, I know . . . 
that you need me . . . badly, and that I be¬ 
lieve ... I know . . . that I need you.” 

Her voice was unsteady, in spite of her courage. 

“I think,” he answered in a low voice, “that 
it is your divine kindness that makes you say that 
to me. I think you say it because you know well 
enough that there’s nothing on earth I would 
rather hear.” 

But he did not dare to look at her, and stared 
out at the sea with his pipe between his teeth. 

Judy laughed. A rather helpless laugh, with 
something of exasperation in it. 

“Kindness! Oh, no. It’s not that at all. I’ll 
tell you what it is. I’m telling you this because 
I’m one of those women who are possessed of an 
insatiable vanity. I’m trying to make you say 
things of the same sort to me. I exact it from 
every man. I like being made love to, on general 
principles. I took the trouble to come down to 


MADAME CLAIRE 


301 

Cornwall to see you because I hoped to sit with 
you under this rock and be made love to. Do 
you believe me?” 

“Not in the least.” 

“Well, it’s quite as true as that I said what I 
did just now out of kindness. Kindness! I . . . 
I could shake you!” 

His face was very troubled. 

“Don’t you see that I cannot—I dare not—put 
any other interpretation on it? You still feel 
an interest in the man who nearly fell under 
your wheels that night. You want to know that 
he is not . . . not too unhappy. You want to 
leave him feeling that he can count on your friend¬ 
ship—and he does, and will. And that is all. It 
is a great deal.” 

“I think you are the most annoying, insulting, 
irritating of men! I don’t know why I came all 
this way to see you and talk to you . . . except 
that I had to, Chip. Do you hear me? I had to I” 

“Judy,” he said, looking at her with eyes that 
seemed not to see her, “I am perfectly certain 
of one thing. And that is, that if by some miracle 
you could, that you must not. . . you must not. . . 
care for me. But you cannot, you cannot!” 

He put out his hand toward her, gropingly, 
and she took it. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


302 

“And I am equally certain of one thing, and 
that is that you care for me. And I tell you, 
Chip, I don’t care twopence for your self-respect, 
or whatever you call it, that you think so much of. 
And I care even less for my own, at the moment. 
And I am tired of your loneliness—your awful 
loneliness—and I am tired to death of my own 
loneliness. And I am tired of hearing you call 
yourself a failure, and I am frightened of being 
a failure myself—and only you can save me from 
it. Only you! And if you talk any more non¬ 
sense about my kindness now . . .” 

“Judy!” he cried, in a voice that was like a 
warning. “Judy!” 

“Yes. I’ve done a dreadful thing. I know I 
have. And I don’t care. I want you to tell me 
all the things you haven’t dared to tell me yet. 
I want to hear them all. . . now. Are you going 
to tell me, Chip? Are you?” 

She was half frightened when she saw the look 
of exaltation on his face. It was his great—his 
supreme moment. The moment that comes once 
to nearly every man, of awe and ecstasy. 

“God forgive me!” he cried. “I will I” 


CHAPTER XXIV 

I Connie, of late, had been giving much thought 
to Petrovitch. 

That gentleman was well aware that she 
avoided seeing him because her nephew had per¬ 
suaded her to do so, and he was not pleased. 
There were other things that did not please him. 
His concerts had been less successful than they 
should have been—was it possible that his popu¬ 
larity was on the wane?—and his wealthy Ameri¬ 
can wife, who, up till now, had been very prodigal 
with her money, had just obtained a divorce from 
him. He had believed all along that she would 
relent. However, the thing that most seriously 
disquieted him was the unsatisfactory condition of 
the box office returns. He accused his manager 
of failing to advertise. He said unkind things of 
the British public. He said there wasn’t a decent 
hall in London, from the point of view of acous¬ 
tics, and lastly he claimed that the food offered 
to him at the many houses where he was enter¬ 
tained, was abominable, and was ruining his diges¬ 
tion. 


303 



MADAME CLAIRE 


304 

He began writing letters to Connie, accusing 
ier, tenderly and regretfully, of faithlessness. He 
wrote in French, as that language enabled him 
to use the endearing “tu” that Connie, he knew 
of old, found irresistible. As she had made no 
promises concerning letters, she felt free to ex¬ 
change them with him as frequently as she desired. 

“I am now,” he wrote her one day, “a free 
man. My wife has seen fit to divorce me, and I 
do not regret it. Like most American and Eng¬ 
lish women (to this rule, you, my beautiful Con¬ 
nie, are a notable exception ) she must have her 
husband tied to her apron string. He must have 
no existence of his own. I—I with my talents, 
my work that is my life, I, if you please, must 
remain in America at her side! She could not 
share me with the world. It is not enough for her 
that she is the wife of Illiodor Petrovitch. He 
must be a tame bear to perform tricks for her . 
Ah, Connie, you understood! You, and only you, 
are a fit companion for a man like myself, a man 
who cannot, who must not, even when he would, 
be put in chains. Yet even you chained me once, 
but only with your love. And I worshiped those 
chains. I would have bound them round me the 
more closely, but my work was a cruel master 


MADAME CLAIRE 


305 

and bade me leave you, and though my heart 
broke, I obeyed. Yet, knowing this, knowing 
that all my life I have regretted those sweet 
chains and longed for them\ again, knowing this, 
you keep aloof. You refuse to see me. You 
permit me to suffer at your hands. Why? Tell 
me why, my beautiful Connie? You are not indif¬ 
ferent to me. You were moved that first day. 
I saw all that. Well then, why? }> 

He wrote many such letters, and she answered 
them, and told him of promises made, to her rela¬ 
tions, of obligations. She never mentioned Noel. 
She said that life was very cruel, and that she 
did not want to hurt him. He would never know, 
she said, what it cost her to refuse to see him. 

When she wrote him of Chiozzi’s sudden end, 
he at once saw the finger of fate. They were both 
free. Here was the advertising he needed. In 
these days of vulgar competition such means were 
not to be despised. He would marry Connie. 
That old affair of theirs would be resurrected. 
So much the better. A romance if you like. Con¬ 
nie was now a Countess, and that also was to the 
good. The papers would seize upon it with joy. 
The news would travel before him to America 
and pave the way for his next concert tour there. 


3 o6 MADAME CLAIRE 

His late wife would be chagrined at this 
speedy remarriage. Everything was for the best. 

He wrote Connie an impassioned letter. He 
said that he lived but to make her his wife. That 
he longed to make up to her for any injustice his 
duty might have forced him to do her in the past. 
The way was clear now. It was written. He laid 
his name, his fame, the devotion of a lifetime, at 
her feet. 

Connie was not of the stuff that could resist 
such an appeal. She was dazzled. Like many 
women who have once dispensed with the for¬ 
mality of marriage, she had an almost supersti¬ 
tious respect for it. It would reinstate her in 
the eyes of the world. It would prove that old 
affair to have been indeed a great love. Illiodor 
would never leave her again. They would grow' 
old together. Not even Noel could raise the faint¬ 
est objection to anything so peculiarly respectable. 

Judy and Noel returned from Cornwall on the 
night train, and on Wednesday morning—they 
had been gone since Monday—Noel, fearing the 
worst, went straight to Connie and found that 
events had shaped themselves exactly as he had 
anticipated. 

“Connie,” he told Judy later, “looked like a 
cat who has eaten the canary.” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


307 

When Noel was very angry he was very con¬ 
cise, and he was now in a very fine anger indeed. 

“It is quite true,” he said, “that you made no 
promises about letters. What you promised me 
was to have nothing further to do with him. 
When you gave me your word to give him up, it 
meant just that. You did not give him up. You 
corresponded with him secretly. I thought you 
still had a spark of loyalty in you. I counted on 
that. It was my mistake. If you want to go to 
the devil, you may.” 

He picked up his hat. Connie, who had sub¬ 
sided into a chair, gave a wail of dismay, and 
running to the door put her back against it. 

“Noel! What do you mean? You can’t go 
away and leave me like this. I thought—I 
thought you would be—well, if not exactly 
pleased, at least reconciled. He is going to marry 
me. We are both free now. It was wrong of 
me to write to him. I didn’t realize it at the 
time, but I do now. I am sorry!” 

Noel stood looking at her as she leaned against 
the door. Was she worth making further efforts 
for? Poor old Connie! She would go to the 
devil now and no mistake! Those pretty, pale 
blue eyes and that weak mouth had defeated 
him. 


MADAME CLAIRE 


308 

“There’s nothing more to be said,” he replied 
more gently. “You’ve made your choice. I’m 
leaving for Germany to-morrow, as you know. 
So, good-by, Connie.” 

Tears again. She wouldn’t take his hand but 
clung instead to his arm, sobbing. There was a 
knock at the door. Noel opened it, expecting to 
see Petrovitch. But it was Madame Claire. 

She stood there smiling, observing Connie’s 
tears and Noel’s anger. She leaned with one 
hand upon her ebony stick. With the other hand 
she held about her the folds of a long, fur- 
trimmed cape. 

“Claire!” exclaimed Noel. “You out, and at 
this time of day? This is marvelous!” 

“I wanted to see Connie,” said Madame Claire, 
kissing her daughter on the cheek. “Good morn¬ 
ing, my dear. I hope you are properly flattered 
at such a visit. I don’t often get out as early as 
this. In fact I don’t often get out at all, these 
days. Were you going, Noel?” 

“Yes,” he answered. “Connie has just in¬ 
formed me of her approaching nuptials. I’ll 
leave the congratulations to you.” 

“I can’t bear him to leave me like this!” cried 
Connie. “He won’t listen to me. I don’t believe 
he wants me to be happy!” 


MADAME CLAIRE 


309 

“Just a moment, Noel,” said Madame Claire. 
“May I have a word in your private ear? You 
won’t mind, will you, Connie?” 

They went a few paces down the hall, away 
from the sitting room door. 

“Connie wrote me about it last night,” said 
Madame Claire. “I received her note this morn¬ 
ing. I had an idea you would be here, and I 
meant to kill two birds with one stone if possible. 
I suppose she’s serious about this . . . this mar¬ 
riage?” 

“Oh, she means to marry him right enough,” 
said Noel, “and I don’t see any way of preventing 
it. Short of fighting a duel. Hang it all-!” 

“I wonder,” interrupted Madame Claire 
speaking very slowly and thoughtfully, “I won¬ 
der whatever became of that little German wife 
of his?” 

“The one he had when he ran off with Connie? 
Dead, I suppose. Or divorced.” 

“I think neither,” she replied. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I had some correspondence with her at the 
time,” said Madame Claire, tracing a pattern on 
the carpet with her stick. “It was after Leonard 
Humphries was killed in South Africa. I wrote 
to her—by an odd coincidence I found out where 



MADAME CLAIRE 


3 10 

she lived—and asked her if she would divorce 
Petrovitch. I have her answer here.” She 
touched the bag she carried. “She lived in an 
obscure village in South Germany, was an ardent 
Roman Catholic, and of course had no intention 
of divorcing him. She went on to say that it was 
also extremely unlikely that she would die, as 
she came of a long-lived family and enjoyed 
excellent health. It was really quite an amusing 
letter. I think the woman had character. And 
I think she still has.” 

She looked up at him as she leaned on her stick. 

“What do you think?” 

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Noel. “A bigamist, 
eh? Claire, you’re a double-eyed sorceress. I 
believe there’s something in it. Will you give 
me the letter?” 

“I will.” She took it out of her bag and gave 
it to him. 

“Don’t say anything to Connie yet. I’m going 
to try a bit of bluff on old What’s-His-Name. 
Of course she may be dead as mutton, but on the 
other hand she may not, as you say. Claire, you 
are-” Words failed him. 

“It’s very interesting,” remarked Madame 
Claire. “Be careful of Petrovitch, and don’t say 
anything libelous. See what you can find out. 



MADAME CLAIRE 


3 11 

But I can trust you to manage the affair. By the 
way, is Judy-?” 

Noel nodded, smiling. 

“Bless her! That’s really delightful! Stephen 
will be so pleased. I dare say I shall see her this 
afternoon.” 

She returned to Connie, and Noel, much ex¬ 
cited, made his way with all speed to Claridge’s, 
reading the letter as he went. At the hotel he 
wrote on his card: 

“/ would like to see you on a matter that con - 
cerns you and your immediate plans ” 

In a few moments he was shown upstairs to 
Petrovitch’s rooms. 

Petrovitch was standing frowning at the card 
in the middle of a large and beautifully furnished 
sitting room. He threw up his head as an animal 
does when Noel entered, and his protruding lips 
widened in an unpleasant smile. 

“Ah! It is the nephew! The charming aunt’s 
charming nephew. I guessed as much. Well? 
You have come to say, ‘Hands off!’ eh? Am I 
right?” 

“Perfectly correct,” said Noel. “That saves 
me a lot of trouble. I merely dropped in to let 



MADAME CLAIRE 


3 12 

you know that the marriage will not take place.” 

“Ah!” cried Petrovitch, rubbing his hands. 
“That is good. That is excellent. You are— 
what do they say—the heavy father, eh? The 
Countess, you will say, is not of age. She does 
not know her mind.” He laughed mirthlessly. 
“Well, I will risk all that, venerable sir!” 

“You’ll be risking more than that,” said Noel 
evenly. “By the way, may I sit down? I think 
if we both sit down—thank you. As I said 
before, I simply came in to tell you that the 
marriage will not take place. I expect you to 
give me your word of honor before I leave this 
room that you will not attempt to see Countess 
Chiozzi again on any pretext whatsoever.” 

“My good young man,” said Petrovitch, too 
much amused to be angry, “I will see your aunt, 
Countess Chiozzi, where and when I please, and 
I will marry her by special license the day after 
to-morrow. What have you to say to that?” 

“Only that it will have to be a very special 
license.” 

“I do not know what you mean by that. But 
one thing I do know very well, and that is that 
even if I did not wish to marry your aunt before, 
I would do so now simply because you do not 


MADAME CLAIRE 


3i3 

wish it. I do not speak English well, but I think 
I have made my meaning clear, eh?” 

“Quite clear. I hope you are as well acquainted 
with the English law as you are with the English 
language.” 

“And why should I know English law?” 

Was he looking the least bit uncomfortable? 
Noel prayed that no sign, no clue might escape 
him. 

“It might come in useful. We’re a funny 
people. To run off with some one else’s wife is 
not, of course, a criminal offense. But there is 
one thing that the law absolutely draws the line 
at. I wonder if you know what that one thing is ?” 

“I do not know,” said Petrovitch looking at 
his watch, “and neither do I care. I am to meet 
your delightful aunt at her hotel at one o’clock, 
and it is now a quarter to that hour. If you will 
excuse me-” 

“In connection with that thing that I have not 
yet named,” went on Noel, “I want you to know 
that I am going to Germany at nine o’clock to¬ 
morrow morning. Here are my passports.” 

Touche! There was not the slightest doubt 
about it now. Petrovitch was on his feet, his 
heavy head down like that of a charging buffalo, 
his brows drawn together, his lips thrust out. 



MADAME CLAIRE 


3 H 

“What do you mean, you-” 

His hands gripped the chair back. Noel went 
on in that casual, calm way of his. 

“Look here, Petrovitch, I’m not going to make 
a row if I can help it. I hate the whole business. 
You leave Connie alone, and you’ll never hear 
of this again. Only—I know what I know, and 
if you force me to do it, I’ll be obliged to produce 
all the necessary proofs, and you’ll be—dished. 
It’s an ugly affair, and it would mean I don’t 
know how many years for you. Candidly now, 
is it worth it?” 

Petrovitch went a queer color and sat down 
suddenly. He had evidently changed his mind 
about throwing anything. Noel felt drunk with 
the wine of complete and unexpected success. He 
wondered what he would have done in Petro- 
vitch’s place, and decided that he would have 
brazened it out to the very end. Not so Petro¬ 
vitch, evidently. His rage had gone as quickly 
as it had come. But what Noel saw in his face 
was not fear. No, it was certainly not fear. 
What was it? 

Petrovitch stared at him for some moments, 
and then said quite simply: 

“She is alive, then?” 

“Great snakes!” Noel said to himself. “Per- 



MADAME CLAIRE 


3i5 

haps I’ve brought her to life!” But his brain 
worked quickly. He touched his pocket. 

“I have a letter from her here,” he said. 

Petrovitch did not even ask to see it. 

“Where is she?” 

“In the same old place. She has never been out 
of it all these years. Why don’t you go there 
and look her up the next chance you get? Do you 
know”—he drew his chair forward an inch or 
two—“I believe she’s still fond of you?” 

Petrovitch straightened himself and passed a 
hand over his forehead. 

“I wrote her many letters. She has never 
replied. I thought she—I believed she was dead. 
During the war I could not go to Germany. I 
have not heard from her in twelve years.” 

“Well, you see,” said Noel, “she hadn’t every 
reason to be pleased with you, had she? You 
know what wives are.” 

The man was almost himself again. He 
shrugged his shoulders and thrust out his hands. 

“I know what all women are.” 

Noel nodded. 

“True. Perfectly true. Well . . . she’s been 
a good wife to you, Petrovitch. She’s let you go 
your own way, she’s never bothered you. If you 


MADAME CLAIRE 


316 

were to go back to her, I believe she’d welcome 
you with open arms.” 

“My poor Freda. ... I believe she would. 
She was a good woman, a good wife. Little 
Freda! Some day, who knows?” 

“Who knows?” echoed Noel. “You might do 
worse, Petrovitch. Think it over.” 

“Freda alive! Freda alive!” Petrovitch kept 
repeating. “My little Freda!” He turned to 
Noel. “You have saved me from crime. From 
crime against the law, and against that good 
woman who still loves me. I thank you.” 

“That’s all right,” said Noel, almost overcome 
by a variety of emotions. To himself he said: 

“I’m beginning to like this fellow!” 

He got up and held out his hand. Petrovitch 
also rose. 

“Well, I’m afraid I must leave you now. 
Er . . . about Connie . . . she’ll feel this, of 
course, but I think I can make all the necessary 
explanations. Will you trust me to break it to 
her as gently as possible? Naturally, I’ve said 
nothing to her about . . . Freda. I didn’t feel 
I could until I’d seen you.” 

“Thank you. I will leave everything to you. 
Connie has a great heart, and I think she will 
not grieve too much if she knows that I but 


MADAME CLAIRE 


3 i 7 

return to an old and faithful love. Soon I go 
to America to fulfill my engagements, and 
then-1” 

“I understand,” said Noel. “Well, good-by 1” 
“May I ask,” inquired Petrovitch, retain¬ 
ing his hand, “how you came to hear that 
Freda-?” 

“Certainly,” Noel answered promptly. “You 
see, years ago, when you and Connie—well—just 
at that time, my grandmother ran across some 
one who knew her—knew Freda. Naturally, my 
grandmother was unhappy about Connie, her 
daughter, and thought that possibly a divorce— 

you understand-?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“So she wrote to her.” 

“Ah! But my wife-” 

“Exactly! She wasn’t having any. Well, she 
kept my grandmother’s address, and the other 
day, being anxious and unhappy about you, she 
naturally thought we might be able to tell her 

something, and so-” 

Petrovitch made a gesture of the hands that 
showed a perfect comprehension, gratitude, sym¬ 
pathy, a yielding to fate, and a consciousness of 
his own power over women, wives and others. 
Noel envied him that gesture. 







3 i8 MADAME CLAIRE 

“My poor little Freda!” 

“And that’s how it was,” Noel concluded. 
They shook hands again, strongly. 

“Well, good luck!” said Noel. 

Petrovitch bowed. 

They never saw each other again. 

In the cab, driving back to Connie’s quiet little 
hotel, Noel wanted to put his head out of the 
window and shout to the passers-by. He could 

hardly contain himself. 

“Freda,” he said aloud, “when I get to Berlin, 
whether you’re alive or dead I’m going to send 
you the biggest box of chocolates I can buy 1” 


i 


CHAPTER XXV 


At last a day came when Madame Claire received 
a wire from Paris: 

“Arriving London to-night. Feeling very jit. 
Have engaged rooms McPherson and self Lang - 
ham Hotel. Will see you to-morrow afternoon 
about four. 

“Stephen.” 

She thought it was one of the most perfect 
moments of her life. She could taste to the full, 
in one mouthful, so to speak, the different yet 
blending flavors of anticipation and realization. 
Dawson had never seen her so happily excited, 
nor so difficult to please in the matter of flowers 
for her room. Judy had wrought this miracle— 
had so revived Stephen’s flagging spirits that he 
felt at last able to make the journey. Had they 
left him alone there in Cannes, he would have 
waited dully and hopelessly for another stroke. 
He would probably have ended his days there, 
without ever returning to England. And now, 
anything was possible. She longed to share Noel 

319 


320 MADAME CLAIRE 

with him, too, Eric, all of them. He might find 
something to like in Gordon. He might continue 
to find Connie and Connie’s vagaries interesting. 
They could see each other every day—or nearly 
every day. And when spring came, he could 
stay with her in Sussex—he would love her little 
house and her garden—and they could talk. 
There was so much to talk about! 

She hoped he had made an honest effort to 
picture her as she now was. Men were so apt not 
to face the facts of change and decay in the 
women they loved. Was he still picturing her 
as she looked when he last saw her, nearly twenty 
years ago? Or—as is so often the way with age 
—was he seeing her as she was when he first 
knew her, before she married Robert? But she 
felt she could trust to his common sense about 
that. At any rate, he would see her as he had 
always seen her, with the eyes of the heart. And 
what would he be like? She believed that his 
personality—that indefinable emanation that 
makes each one of us different from any other 
one—would be unchanged. To her, nothing else 
mattered. 

***** * 

To-morrow came. She pictured Stephen look¬ 
ing out of his windows at London, and getting 


MADAME CLAIRE 321 

used to the smell of it again. Madame Claire 
was always dressed by eleven except on her bad 
days, and to-day, thank Heaven! was not one of 
them. From eleven till four—five hours, five long 
hours! Miss McPherson had telephoned that 
she would have her patient there by four o’clock. 
She would leave him at the door, the tactful 
creature had said, and go for a walk in the park. 
Madame Claire agreed to this, on the condition 
that when she came for him again at six, she stay 
for half an hour. Miss McPherson would be very 
pleased indeed to do so. 

At four, Madame Claire was dressed in a wine- 
colored silk that spread about her stiffly and 
richly as she sat in her straight-backed chair. Her 
white hair was dressed high, and secured with a 
comb of carved shell. She had given much thought 
to her appearance. She kept beside her an old 
ebony stick of Robert’s, for her rheumatism made 
it a little difficult for her to rise. On the other 
side of the wood fire was another chair, carefully 
placed so that the light would fall on the face of 
the occupant, but not too strongly for his com¬ 
fort. The room was full of flowers; early tulips, 
richly dyed anemones, and here and there her 
beloved freesias. On a small table at her right 


MADAME CLAIRE 


322 

hand lay an inlaid box, and the key to it hung on 
a bracelet she wore on her wrist. 

A bell rang, and she sat motionless, hardly 
moving her eyelids. Stephen . . . Stephen was at 
her door . . . fate was kind . . . this was her 
moment of moments, her day of days. 

The door opened, and Dawson said in a strange 
voice: 

“Mr. de Lisle, m’lady,” and vanished. 

And Stephen came to her. . . . 

They brushed each other’s cheeks lightly, for 
the first time in their long lives. They moved 
the two chairs nearer together and sat with 
clasped hands. Words for a time were beyond 
them, but at last Stephen spoke. 

“You are wonderful,” he said, “wonderful, 
wonderful!” 

“But you-!” cried Madame Claire. “I 

was prepared for some one much older, some one 
bent and feeble . . . you are so straight!” 

“As long as the Lord lets me walk at all,” 
he told her, “I hope He’ll let me walk upright. 
And I’m better . . . much better.” 

“How I have longed for this!” Her voice 
rang out clearly. “My dear, stubborn, too proud 
old Stephen!” 

“Less stubborn now, but still proud. Claire, 



MADAME CLAIRE 


323 


you always had delightful ways. It’s your ways 
that have always held me—and your wits. But 
how have you managed to become beautiful?” 

“Beautiful? My poor old Stephen—your 
eyes-!” 

“As good as they ever were, except for read¬ 
ing. No, you’ve got something new . . . what 
is it? Dignity, that’s it. You were always too 
gentle, too shy, to be properly dignified.” 

“I was always shy,” she agreed, “until lately.” 

“I adored your shyness. A gentle, soft-voiced 
thing you were. Clever . . . devilish clever! How 
you managed Robert! And me. And all the 
chattering, brilliant, stupid, charming people of 
our day. You managed ’em all. And nobody 
knew it, but me. I used to tell Robert he’d have 
been a government clerk somewhere, but for you.” 

“That,” she said, “was untrue, for Robert had 
wit and a good brain. His fault was that he 
didn’t understand people. He wasn’t human 
enough. I could help him there.” 

“And you did help him. You made him; say 
what you will. You would have made any man.” 

They talked—how they talked! Never taking 
their eyes off each other’s faces. Remembering 
things that they had half forgotten, things that 
it took the two of them together to remember 



MADAME CLAIRE 


324 

completely. Stopping in their talk every now and 
then to smile at each other, to realize that this 
longed-for thing had come to pass. To savor 
these moments, these perfect, winged moments, 
that would never be less than perfect; moments 
that Time had brought to a fine flowering— 
“Without the end of fruit”—without the end of 
disillusion, too, and what scent that flowering 
had! No, there could be no falling off, no dim¬ 
ming of that brightness. They could trust to 
Death for that. Their curtain would be rung 
down on a fine gesture, on a perfect note. 

And then back to Robert again, and his quali¬ 
ties that Stephen so much admired. They could 
even talk of him, frankly and simply. Twenty 
years ago he had been too near, his claim to be 
regarded as an absent friend, merely, had been 
too great. But now- 

“I think he appreciated you, Claire.” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“If he had not—but he did. I have always 
remembered that. And he made you happy.” 

She lifted her head and looked squarely at him, 
holding his eyes with hers, steadily. 

“I made myself happy,” she said. 

“What do you mean?” 

There was not much time left to them. Let it 



MADAME CLAIRE 


325 

be a completely happy time, free of all pretense, 
of all misunderstanding. She wanted no secrets 
from Stephen now. Even if she did Robert the 
least injustice, his spirit must have reached heights 
of magnanimity very far beyond the reach of 
such truths as were mere earthly truths. She 
owed something to the living, and to her own 
spirit. She had kept her secret well. She meant 
to permit herself the inestimable luxury of shar¬ 
ing it now with Stephen. 

“I mean—I made myself as happy as a woman 
can be who is not married to the man she loves.” 

He had felt, when she looked at him so 
strangely, that he was on the brink of some new 
knowledge. He almost dreaded what that knowl¬ 
edge might be—dreaded the pain it might bring. 
He had hardly grasped her meaning yet. 

“Claire! Then why—why-? Good 

God— r 

She released the hand that he had clung to, 
and unfastened the little gold key that hung from 
her wrist. She took the inlaid box on her knees 
and opened it, Stephen watching her every move¬ 
ment. The box was lined with red velvet and 
contained a single letter, yellow with age. She 
took it out, delicately, and turned it over in her 
fingers so that he saw both sides of it. It was 




326 MADAME CLAIRE 

unopened. The heavy seal on the flap of the 
envelope was unbroken. She gave him the letter 
without a word. 

He studied it for a moment. 

“My writing!” he exclaimed. “Claire, what 
is this? What letter is this?” 

“That letter,” she said gently, putting a hand 
on his arm, “is a proposal from the man I loved.” 

He looked at her, uncomprehending. 

“I will tell you about it,” she said. 

“Fifty-six years ago, Stephen, when that letter 
was written, I had two admirers. Oh, more, per¬ 
haps, but only two that counted. They were you 
and Robert. Robert was serious and clever, and 
very much in love with himself, and you were— 
everything that the heart of a girl like me could 
desire. You were friends, you two; you were 
rivals, but friends for all that. You were the 
better lover, Robert the more ingenious wooer. 
Robert out-maneuvered you. It was he who got 
most of my dances at balls, but it was always you 
I longed to give them to. It was Robert who 
won the approval of my mother and father; it 
was you who won mine. He was said to be a 
coming young man. They told me that you lacked 
ambition and force—even in those days people 
talked about force—but it was you I loved. You 


MADAME CLAIRE 327 

told my father that you wanted to marry me, and 
he said you were too young for me. You were 
only twenty-two, and I was twenty-three. He per¬ 
suaded you to make the Grand Tour before set¬ 
tling anything. You told him you would not go 
without speaking to me. And you tried to speak 
to me—how often you tried!—but we were never 
left alone in those days. My mother was fearful, 
for Robert, and Robert was fearful for himself. 
So there were always interruptions. You were 
almost maddened by them, and I—I was eating 
my heart out. If you could only have passed me 
on the stairs and whispered, ‘Marry me!’ I would 
have said ‘Yes.’ But the chance never came. 
And I—little fool—was too shy to make it. And 
then, on the very eve of your Grand Tour, you 
wrote me this letter. 

“I had almost despaired of your ever speaking. 
I was hurt and miserable. Robert redoubled his 
efforts. And then one day he came to the house 
—it was the day he meant to propose, and I knew 
that my mother meant to receive him with me and 
then excuse herself, leaving us together. It was 
the day before you were to go away, and I longed 
for any word or sign from you. 

“You sent this letter, by hand. It reached the 
hous.e at the same moment that Robert did. He 






328 MADAME CLAIRE 

saw that it was from you, and he guessed, and 
was jealous and afraid. He told the maid that 
he would give it to me upstairs, and that as I 
was expecting him she needn’t announce him. 
Stephen—he put the letter in his pocket.” 

Stephen made a sudden movement and leaned 
nearer to her. 

“Go on,” he said in a voice that was hardly 
more than a whisper. 

“He kept it in his pocket. Yes, Robert did 
that. I, hearing nothing, thought you indifferent, 
and my heart seemed to break. He proposed to 
me that afternoon, and the next evening, knowing 
that you had indeed gone without a word, I gave 
him the answer he wanted.” 

She paused a moment, looking into the fire. 

“I wrote to you to tell you of my engagement. 
You must have considered that the letter I wrote 
to you then was in answer to the one you had 
sent me. You thought that Robert had won 
fairly, and blamed yourself. When you came 
back, Robert and I were already married, and 
you resumed your friendship with him and with 
me. And I pretended—how well I pretended you 
know—that you were no more to me than my 
husband’s friend. And you were the soul of 
honor, Stephen, for although I knew you still 


MADAME CLAIRE 329 

loved me—I knew it the moment I saw you again 
—never by one word or look did you try to show 
me that you did. 

“As I look back now, it seems to me that I saw 
almost as much of you as I did of Robert. We 
were always together, we three. I used to try to 
marry you to my friends, but although you were 
always charming to them, you were never more 
than that. 

“And then, years later, Robert was made 
ambassador to Italy. It was a tremendous step 
up, and you rejoiced with us, as you always did 
at our good fortune. The first year we were in 
Rome, Robert was very ill with fever. He 
thought he was going to die. He was always apt 
to exaggerate his illnesses. He told me he had 
something on his mind, and he gave me your letter, 
and told me what he had done. I forgave him, 
I had to forgive him, and we never spoke of it 
again. But I never dared to read it, Stephen. 
I put it away in this box. I didn’t dare to open 
that wound.” 

There was silence again. Stephen felt he could 
say nothing. Robert had been his closest friend 
—they had been like brothers—and he had done 
this! What was there for him to say? 

“I am telling you this now,” Madame Claire 


MADAME CLAIRE 


330 

went on, “because I want the time that remains 
to us to be as perfect as possible. I want you to 
know that while I was a good and faithful wife 
to Robert, and made him, I believe, very happy, 
I loved you. I bear him no ill will. He acted 
according to his lights, believing, then, that all 
was fair in love. That doesn’t make his act less 
detestable, but I must weigh in the scales against 
that, the fact that he was the best of husbands 
and fathers. And I forgave him absolutely. But, 

oh, Stephen-! All those years ... all those 

years were one long struggle against my love for 
you!” 

There are moments too great or too poignant 
for speech. He did not know, then, whether the 
pain or the happiness of this new knowledge was 
the stronger. For a moment the pain had the 
upper hand. 

“It is a tragedy!” he said at last. “A tragedy!” 

Presently he turned to her again. 

“But when he died?” he asked. “When I 
came to you again? Why did you say no?” 

Madame Claire hesitated before she spol^ 

“My reasons,” she said, “may have seemed to 
you to be poor ones. I pleaded my age, I remem¬ 
ber, and the fact—or what I believed Wa a fact 
—that it would have been an elderly folly for us 



MADAME CLAIRE 


33 i 

to have married then. But there was another 
reason, and a better one. Stephen ... I dreaded 
an anti-climax. And it would have been that. 
After loving you all my life, all my youth, to have 
married you at sixty ... it seemed to me a dese¬ 
cration. I hoped for a dear friendship with you. 
It was that I longed 1 for. But you were angry and 
hurt. You left me. I thought you would be 
gone six months, or possibly a year. You were 
away nearly twenty years! . . . Oh, Stephen! . . 

His eyes begged her forgiveness. 

“I always tried to think that you were right, 
Claire,” he said softly. “Right or wrong, it all 
belongs to the past now. So does my loneliness. 
I have been lonely, but I can bear that too, now 
that I know I have been loved. That sheds a 
glory on my life ... a glory.” 

His voice sank. She watched him turning the 
letter over in his hands, remembering . . . remem¬ 
bering. Then, with a gesture full of courtliness 
and charm, he held it out to her. 

“Read it, my dear, now,” he said. “Veux 
tu, toi?” 






CHAPTER XXVI 


Late September had come, with its sad, too- 
mellow beauty. It had ripened all the fruit, 
burnishing the apples to look like little suns, and 
the sun to look like a ripe, burnished apple. It 
had woven its web of blue over all the still coun¬ 
tryside, so that the elms standing so nobly in the 
Sussex meadows seemed draped in it, like tapestry 
trees; the far hills had wrapped themselves in its 
hazy folds and gone to sleep until some cold and 
later wind should strip them of it. 

In Madame Claire’s garden a few roses 
bloomed somewhat blowsily, and asters and 
Michaelmas daisies, dahlias and a brave company 
of late-staying perennials made welcome color 
notes among the greens and rust browns. 

She sat in her library, writing. Every now and 
then she looked out of her French window at 
Stephen who was sitting on the lawn in one of the 
garden chairs, reading, his long legs resting on 
another. Robins visited him, perching on a chair 
or table, and he thought as his sunken blue eyes 
regarded them humorously, that the robin was 

332 


MADAME CLAIRE 


333 

more like a confiding little animal than a bird, 
with its friendly ways, and its power—shared 
with no other small bird—of meeting the human 
eye. 

He had lived in some of the beauty spots of the 
world, but he said to himself that no beauty crept 
into the heart as this beauty of Sussex did. 
Mingled with it was some of the charm of what 
was lovable in human nature—the charm of gen¬ 
tleness and quiet and homeliness. Every wind was 
tempered, the sun shone through a protecting 
haze, the verdure harbored nothing more treach¬ 
erous than a fluttering moth. To an eye accus¬ 
tomed to the white and blue glare of the South, 
every tint, every color seemed happily blended. 
And even the robins, he thought, returning to his 
book, seemed to know and like him. 

Madame Claire was writing to Noel. 

“I have often pointed out to you,” she wrote, 
u the enormous advantages of old age over youth, 
hut I have never felt them more keenly myself 
than now. The world is at present in a state of 
flux, and that state, while it may he beneficial, is 
rarely comfortable. There are movements afoot 
that I am sure cause young mothers to wonder 
fearfully what precarious and troubled lives are 


MADAME CLAIRE 


334 

in store for their little ones. I am not one of 
those who believe blindly that all new movements 
are good ones. The world has seen many that 
seemed great, happily defeat their own ends, 
leaving the generations to come a legacy of knowl¬ 
edge that they seem, often enough, to ignore. I 
believe that the struggle will be fierce, but the 
world, in order to attend to the enormously im¬ 
portant businesses of increasing, eating and sleep¬ 
ing, requires in the long run certain conventions 
and conformities, and to preserve these has a way 
of weakening the ground under the feet of the 
shouting and bloodthirsty reformer — even, alas! 
of the true spiritual leader. The world has dedi¬ 
cated itself, I think, to the great law of average — 
such an eternal warring of good and bad would 
seem to bring that about naturally—and compro¬ 
mise would be the inevitable end of every struggle. 

u You, and all those I love, will either be par¬ 
ticipators in or spectators of that struggle. Not 
so Stephen and myself. We are privileged by old 
age to ignore it if we can. Age has a right to 
forget the evils that it can do nothing to lessen. 

“I still read my paper, but I get no pleasure 
from it. Who does? One sees that the Empire 
for which one would cheerfully die, is accused of 
making mistakes in every quarter of the globe. 


MADAME CLAIRE 335 

One hears of millions of helpless people in another 
country brought to starvation through a fiendish 
conspiracy of greed unexampled in the world’s 
cruel history. It is one long tale of dissatisfac¬ 
tion and dissent, and it were better not to have 
turned a single page. 

“But let us leave all that and talk of people. 

“When you came back for Judy’s wedding in 
June, Eric and Louise were still living apart, 
though they came together of necessity on that 
occasion; and things looked hopeless. But Eric, 
as I suppose you must have heard by now, had 
a breakdown brought on from overwork. He 
had made, I think, a hundred and forty speeches in 
eight months, and traveled I forget how many 
thousand miles. His fight with the I.L.P. over 
the Moor gate Division was a great fight and he 
defeated them all along the line. But the strain 
was too much for him. Louise was at Mistley 
when he was taken ill, and Connie was still keep¬ 
ing house for him. She hurried him off to a nurs¬ 
ing home, and wrote Louise a scathing letter which 
brought that lady hot-foot to London. The two 
met for the first time over the sickbed, and oddly 
enough, neither dislikes the other as much as they 
had expected to. Connie had given such a bad 
account of Eric that I believe Louise came to get 


MADAME CLAIRE 


33 6 

a deathbed forgiveness. At any rate, she com - 
pletely broke down and sobbed out her remorse 
on his pillow, while Connie and the nurse stood 
in the hall and tried not to hear. Eric accepted 
her repentance and forgave her on the sole con- 
dition that she maintain that same friendly atti¬ 
tude when he was well again. That, and that 
alone he insisted upon, that she treat him like a 
friend instead of an enemy. This she gave him 
to understand she would do, and they are now 
convalescing together—for in a sense Louise must 
be convalescing too—in Chip’s cottage in Corn¬ 
wall, looked after by an old Cornish woman. I 
had a letter from her yesterday, and she says she 
has never been so happy in her life. That is be¬ 
cause she has him entirely to herself, and there is 
• no one there who could possibly interest him more 
than she does. So far so good. What will hap¬ 
pen when he is at work again, surrounded by 
people who make claims upon him, I do not know. 
But I do feel certain that things can never be as 
bad again. 

“Connie of course is merely marking time till 
your return. She has lately made a number of 
perfectly desirable acquaintances, however, and 
is not in the least unhappy. I think her thank¬ 
fulness at her narrow escape from a bigamous 


MADAME CLAIRE 


337 

(?) marriage keeps her from cavilling at her fate, 
or from dwelling on her inexplicable infatuation 
for Petrovitch, who is in America. For she is 
not cured of that, nor will she ever be. He is, 
as you once said, her hero for life, spots and all. 
That is the role she has chosen for herself, and 
she will play it to the end. I am longing to know 
whether or not you have been able to find any 
traces of Freda. I sometimes feel that you and 
1 played a not altogether worthy part in that 
affair, but it was worth it! 

“You ask me for minute particulars concerning 
Judy. Is she happy, you ask? What am I to 
say to that? If she is not happy, she will always 
be too loyal to say so. I think she is clever enough 
to make her own happiness, or at least to attain 
to an average of contentment—an average that 
leans at moments toward the peaks of happiness 
on one side and toward the abyss of unhappiness 
on the other. And I think it is good for us to 
look both ways. Her love for Chip—and a very 
real love it is—has much in it of the maternal, a 
quality I think every woman’s love is the better 
for. As for him — dear, simple Chip!—he wor¬ 
ships her, and is unutterably happy. He may dis¬ 
appoint her in some ways. He lacks and will 
always lack—in spite of the miracle of her love — 


MADAME CLAIRE 


338 

self-confidence. He is never quite comfortable 
with strangers y and never expects to be liked, 
though when he finds that he is y he glows like a 
nice child that is justly praised. If fame ever 
comes to Chip it will come in spite of him. 

“Judy has made their small flat a really delight¬ 
ful place y but entertaining, except in the most 
informal way, is of course impossible. No one 
thinks less of human pomps than I do, but given 
different opportunities, Judy might have been 
something of a Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. Her 
charm is extraordinary. She has ( come out y won* 
derfully since her marriage, and it is easy to see 
that she will develop into an uncommon woman . 
If Chip will only develop with her—but I pray 
that he will. 

“That little cottage in Cornwall that played 
such an important part in their lives was the right 
setting for their honeymoon, for they had much 
to learn about each other. You say that however 
it turns out, you are bound to feel partly respon¬ 
sible. Possibly; but that lovable and gentle face 
of Chip f s with the lights shining through the fog 
upon it, was far more responsible. Judy was 
bound to love him. And whether she be happy 
or not, she will be all the better for loving him. 
We make too much of happiness, Noel. It doesn’t 


MADAME CLAIRE 


339 

much matter what our lives are; hut it does matter 
whether or not we live them finely. And that is 
possible to any of us. A certain style is necessary 
for K this; a certain gallant attitude. One finds this 
style, this gallantry, in the most unlooked-for 
places sometimes —=—r 

i( And just now, I think, is the right moment for 
me to speak of Mr. Colehridge. In spite of his 
undeniable limitations he loved Judy sincerely, 
and he has proved it in a most agreeable way . 
You remember I wrote you some time ago that 1 
had been reading Chip } s plays. There were three, 
and two of them are charming—really charming . 
I imagine Chip } s knowledge of women to have 
been extremely slight, but the ladies who existed 
in his imagination are really the most delightful 
creatures! Delightful! These two plays that I 
like so much are fanciful, but at the same time 
they are wonderfully sympathetic and human, and 
I feel absolutely certain that given half a chance 
they are bound to succeed. I at once gave them 
to Mr. Colebridge to read—he owns theaters, 
you know—and although he says he knows noth¬ 
ing about plays, I mistrust him, for he knew 
enough to appreciate these. He is taking them 
to New York with him soon, and launched and 
extensively advertised by him, I feel sure they will 



MADAME CLAIRE 


340 

flourish. He seems to know the very actors and 
actresses for the leading parts. Isn f t it lucky? 
Mr. Colehridge seems almost as pleased about it 
as I am myself. Judy says he is doing it for me, 
but of course that 1 s nonsense. He says he has 
no doubt that the plays will put Judy and Chip 
‘on Easy Street. 1 

“Now that I call gallant. To make your rival 1 s 
fortune is not the end and aim of most disap¬ 
pointed lovers. There is style about that. I like 
Mr. Colebridge. He comes here quite often to 
see Stephen and me, and while I admit that I like 
him and — yes—even admire him, I do not, I con¬ 
fess, like him best when he is sitting in my garden, 
oblivious to its beauties and to the cajoleries of a 
most divine autumn, talking about sugar stocks. 
I like him better when he has gone, and I think 
how good-natured it was of him to have come, 
and how nice he really is. 

“Chip f s book on religions is in the hands of 
the publishers at last. I haven 1 1 read it. Neither 
has Judy. He is extraordinarily shy and sensitive 
about it, and Judy says she has twice saved it 
from destruction at his hands. I feel it must be 
good. It may even be great! Well, we shall 
know some day. 

“There 1 s very little about Gordon that I can 


MADAME CLAIRE 


34i 


find to say . I know that he had set his heart on 
a house in Mayfair, and that Helen had decided 
on one in Bloomsbury, near certain friends of 
hers; Bloomsbury, as you know, having become 
the fashion with a set of people whom Helen 
considers very desirable . I guessed what that 
high nose and long, unbeautiful chin indicated . 
Millie and John tactfully sided with both, for 
they feel that while Gordon is of course perfect, 
Helen can do no wrong . The little comedy has 
amused me considerably, and - ” 

Stephen was calling to her. She put down her 
pen and stepped out of the French window. She 
crossed the lawn with a pleasant rustle of long 
gray skirts, and he got out of his chair as she 
came toward him. 

“What have you been doing all this long 
time?” 

“Writing to Noel,” she answered. “Have I 
neglected you?” 

“I was beginning to think so. Come and take 
a walk round the garden with me.” 

“Where is Miss McPherson?” 

“She’s perpetrating one of her atrocious and 
painstaking water colors in the lane.” 

“And you tell her they are beautiful!” 



342 


MADAME CLAIRE 


“It’s the only way I can make her blush.” 

They walked between herbaceous borders 
where dying colors burned with the deep, concen¬ 
trated brilliance of embers. 

“I have never loved an autumn as I have loved 
this one,” Stephen said. 

“Nor I. Do you know why that is, Stephen? 
It’s because we are untroubled by thoughts of 
other autumns.” 

“Perhaps. I don’t mind your saying those 
things as I once did.” 

“All the fever,” she went on, “has gone out of 
life. Each day is a little book of hours. The 
opening and closing of each flower is an event of 
prime and beautiful importance. The shape and 
movement of clouds, the flight of birds, the 
shadows of the leaves on the grass—all those 
things and a thousand other lovely things are 
beginning to assume a right proportion in our 
lives. We are beginning to be happy.” 

“It’s the wonderful peace of it all,” said 
Stephen. 

“Yes. The peace of old age is something I 
have looked forward to all my life. That, and 
the dignity of it.” She looked up at him, smiling. 
“For old age, Stephen, my dear, is almost as 
dignified as death.” 

(I) 


THE END 


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